


where the kids are

by explosivesky



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, University AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28775853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosivesky/pseuds/explosivesky
Summary: Her heartbeat lulls, staring at the night sky. She has the sudden urge to compare lifelines. Stay with me, she wants to say, but he breaks her gaze and the moment is over. “Tell me something about space.”
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	1. let this be our little secret

**September**

It’s eight-thirty in the morning, and Clara is _not,_ surprisingly, the first one to move in.

The door across from hers is already ajar, and there’s a bag against the wall in the corridor separating their rooms. Her dad raises his eyebrows.

“ _Well_ now,” he says approvingly, shifting the boxes in his arms, “another early-riser. Looks like you’ve finally met your match.”

She rolls her eyes, shoving her key in the lock and twisting, adjusting the luggage in her other arm. She can hear shuffling from inside the other room, but the occupant isn’t in her direct line of sight. She decides she’ll leave it for the moment, fingers resting on the handle, and then—

—a scuffling of shoes. “Let me get that for you,” a voice says, and a hand reaches over her head to push the door open. She starts, craning her neck to look. There’s a boy standing to the side of her, tall and slim, wearing some of the oddest attire she’s ever seen: a grey, almost lavender vest over a white-collared shirt and a pair of slacks, with – strangely enough – a bowtie. He’s smiling apologetically. “Fire doors,” he explains, sweeping his russet hair out of his eyes, “they’re rather heavy. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s alright,” she responds, once she’s past his sudden appearance. “Thanks.”

Her dad enters the room, surveying it. “Clara, how’re you going to manage with these doors?” He asks airily, setting the boxes on the floor. “I bet they’re twice your weight.”

The door shuts softly behind them. Her cheeks flare, but she’s used to this. “Lovely. And whose fault is it that I’m so small? Probably genetics, I’d assume.”

“Ouch,” her dad answers, grinning. “I’m of perfectly average height.”

“Yeah, and perfectly average everything else,” she says, and he snorts. She turns and catches the boy trying not to laugh, but his smile isn’t entirely genuine; it ignites a curiosity within her. She knows a bit about when something’s _off;_ the way you can turn out a light, or snuff a candle.

“Sorry,” she says, extending her hand, “I didn’t catch your name.”

He grasps it tentatively. “John. Erm. John Smith.”

She can’t help it; she giggles. It’s the most common name in the world, and yet she’s never actually met anyone who’s had it. “ _No_.”

“Yes, unfortunately,” he replies, and there’s that smile again, odd as ever. “I suppose my parents thought it’d be ironic.”

His mouth twitches at the mention of his parents, and it’s a gesture both Clara and her father are both exceedingly familiar with; it’s the nervous tick you get when you mention something you don’t exactly want to talk about. Her heart dives out of her body; it explains why he’s alone, and being alone is a state she understands.

She clears her throat. She won’t bring it up. It’s too sad of a connection to have. “Well, they weren’t wrong.” She offers him a sincere grin. “It suits you.”

It’s small, but it’s there – the first legitimate turn of his mouth. She thinks he appreciates that she didn’t ask about his parents more than he appreciates the sentiment, but she gets it. “I’m Clara. Oswald.”

“Dave.” Her father also shakes John’s hand. “Hopefully you’ll be around to open Clara’s door for her.”

“Hopefully I’ll be able to hear her knocking on mine. Her fists look tiny, too.”

Dave laughs loudly. Clara fumes, but inwardly doesn’t mind being on the receiving end of their jokes – she can hold her own. “Oh, brilliant,” she responds, beginning to unzip a suitcase, “another one who thinks he’s a comedian.”

“I am. John still needs to prove himself, but he’s off to a good start.”

“You’re a bad influence.”

John’s chuckling behind his hand. She’s momentarily distracted again; it’s like he’s ashamed of his own laugh, and not because the sound itself is embarrassing. She tries to ignore it – she doesn’t think he’d be comfortable with her ability to read him.

“Okay, as big a help as you’ve been,” she decides, shoving her father out of the room, “I can handle it from here.”

Dave gives her a hug and kisses her cheek, compliant. John glances back, still inside. Dave lowers his voice. “You know, Clara, the reason he’s by himself—”

“I know,” she mutters, just as quietly. “I think he’s nervous, too. It’s probably better that you leave.”

He nods once. “Be – tactful.”

“I know. I’ll call you later, once I’m set up.”

He waves goodbye to John. Clara’s fingers wrap around the door handle, ready. He shouts, “John, make sure Clara's—”

She swings the door closed, cutting him off. John’s real smile appears unpracticed, new. “You were prepared for that one,” he says, admiringly. “Live close?”

“Half an hour. Not bad. I’ll see him soon.”

She spins around again, surveying the room. It’s a decent size; she’ll fit her belongings, easily. It’s then she realizes she’s trapped him in. “Oh,” she says, glancing at him apologetically, “I didn’t mean to – lock you in with me. It’s not a trick to force you into helping me unpack.”

“I don’t mind,” he replies, running a hand through his hair again. “I’ve almost finished, anyway. Is there anything you _do_ need help with?”

She points at a box close to him sheepishly. “It’s full of books,” she informs him. “D'you mind just stacking them on the shelf, there?” She pauses. “This isn’t an opening for a short joke, either.”

He chuckles. “Not at all,” he says, and he’s at it. She watches him for a moment before beginning with her clothes; they fall into a silence only interrupted by the occasional thump and shuffling. It should be awkward, but it isn’t; it’s just nice. She’s grateful for the presence of someone who doesn’t feel the need to talk all the time.

She looks at his work about fifteen minutes later, and he’s seem to put an order to it; she stands behind him, casually surveying. “Wow, alphabetical by author. Thanks.” She pats his shoulder. “I’m impressed by your work ethic.”

He laughs once and once only. “I wasn’t sure how you’d do it, but this is how I normally do. I didn’t notice.”

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“You have good taste.” He seems to blush as he says this. She wonders how practiced he is at complimenting other people. “The Alchemist, Eleven Minutes, The Prophet, Siddhartha…”

Her eyebrows raise. “Are you a fan?”

“You sound surprised.”

She runs a finger over the spine of _The Alchemist._ “They’re popular books. Plenty of people read them, but it’s rare to find people who actually _enjoy_ reading them. It’s usually more of a chore.”

He hums. “I’ve never thought of it like that, but you’re not wrong.”

For reasons she can’t explain, everything about him fascinates her. “Which is your favourite?”

He doesn’t even need to think about it. “The Prophet. Beautiful collection.”

They both stand for a moment, staring, lost in their own recollections of other writers’ words. He shakes his head a bit. “Sorry. I think I’ve memorized it by now.” He looks behind her. “Need help with your bed? It’s rather difficult, I struggled with mine.”

She smiles nicely. “Thanks. Though, for the record, can we pretend that I am perfectly capable of doing this on my own and would _rather_ have assistance?”

He laughs again, clearly amused. “Of course. I probably could’ve used your help more than you can use mine, to be honest. Memory foam mattress. It wasn’t easy.”

“Brag a little more,” she says, and throws her sheets at him. “It’s very classy.”

“I’ll share, if you want,” he replies, battling with the blanket. She crosses her arms, smirking. He seems to comprehend what he’s said and burns like he’s on fire. “I didn’t mean – not that I – just that, it’s, erm, it’s comfortable, I wasn’t implying – you know – that we should – do you want to trade beds? You can have mine, I’ll sleep at a…different university.”

He’s flustered and she’s laughing, and he presses his palm against his face until he’s laughing, too, and there’s something welcoming about the noise, as if she were meant to hear it.

“It’s okay,” she says, trying to reign herself in. “I understood. You don’t seem like the type, anyway.”

He tries to look affronted. “What, to have a girl in my bed?”

“No, to be the one who asks her there.”

He doesn’t really have a response to that, but the way his mouth curls as he turns away tells her everything she needs to know.

–

(But now you owe me a tour of _your_ room, she says, after they’ve finished smoothing out her blankets. Go on, then. I have to see this _mattress_ you won’t shut up about.

Don’t make fun of me, he says seriously, as he closes the door behind him.

There’s a poster of the solar system on the back of his door, and a pinboard of various astrological-related discoveries, including a diagram of a planet with a diamond center. There are blueprints of space shuttles, and a NASA shirt hanging over the back of his desk chair. He’s rubbing the back of his head, waiting for her reaction.

She’s actually incredibly taken with it all; it feels like it’s right for him, like it’s something he was born for. Wow, is all she says, gazing around. Well, I bet I can guess what your degree is in.

I’ve been here since seven, he confesses sheepishly. He shuts off the lights – he’s got a blackout blind over his window. She’s momentarily disarmed until he smiles shyly and says, Look up.

Glow-in-the-dark stars and planets paint his ceiling; it’s a thing a child would do, but hasn’t lost its appeal. She sits on his bed, lying back. There’s something familiar about the pattern.

Hold on, she says. Is this – this is correct. I mean, you’ve replicated the sky. This is what we actually see at night, isn’t it?

She can see his smile, glittering under an impressive remake of space. Yes, he says. Astrophysics. That’s my degree.

I figured, she answers, still in awe. Come here. Explain it to me. The – the constellations and galaxies and stars.

He’s driven by her enthusiasm. He lies carefully beside her and begins pointing out things she recognizes by sight but not by name. He talks for an hour, and they’re only interrupted by the sound of banging in the hallway and a distinctly Scottish accent shouting profanities, and Clara’s suddenly immensely disappointed that they have other flatmates.

They shock a red-headed girl when they open the door, who observes them candidly for a moment before saying, Wow, you two didn’t waste any time, did you, with a smug look and a smirk. What _were_ you doing in there? And John stammers over himself and Clara rolls her eyes, waving the girl off.

I’ve a new-found love for astronomy, she says, clarifying nothing, and John grins at her just long enough to remember that the world isn’t going to end.)

–

Everyone else trickles in after that, and it turns out to be the strangest combination of people anybody hand-picking could’ve managed: John, with his questionable dress sense, overexcited mouth, and slightly manic obsession with outer-space; a Scottish girl named Amy Pond, whose red hair matches the colour of her wicked temper, quick and unforgiving; Rory Williams, a meek boy who is seemingly always unsure of himself and apparently flustered by the mere presence of so many girls (Clara worries he’ll be torn to bits, living with people like them); Jack Harkness, an American exchange student who’s good-looking and aware of it, and flamboyantly uncaring of the definition of sexuality (he’s the last to arrive, and he flirts with each of them in turn within the first twenty minutes of introductions); and finally, River Song: a sexy, seductive, attractively arrogant girl who carries a maddeningly omniscient air about her that Clara _knows_ will have them all on edge.

Jack proposes they all go out for a drink and winks; his intent is clear – he’s hoping one of them will end up in his room instead of their own.

“Oh, Clara,” he says after she calls him out on it, grinning with his teeth, “you’re not dreaming big enough. One? How about all of you? There’s no better bonding experience.”

She rolls her eyes. She gets the feeling she’ll be doing that on a daily basis. “Sorry,” she says, “John and I have plans.”

Well, at least he isn’t rubbish at playing along. “Yes,” he chimes in, hands behind his back. “Bit unfortunate that the rest of you got here so late.”

“We’re not aliens like the two of you,” Amy says, disbelieving. She turns to the rest of the group. “They’ve been here since _eight._ ”

“Seven—”

“At least they’re dedicated,” River replies, but there’s an innuendo in her voice – Clara’s pretty positive she exudes innuendo no matter what she says.

She’s already tugging on his sleeve. He follows obediently. “Some other time?” She calls over her shoulder, sincere. “I make _brilliant_ margaritas.”

And she’s won Jack over. “With an offer like that, who can refuse?” He answers for them, and then they’re gone.

“So, it’s like that,” River says, attempting to sound casually uninterested.

“It’s like that,” Amy replies, and that’s all there is to it.

–

(They go out for drinks by themselves and talk – he hardly touches his cider, though it’s the only alcoholic beverage he can stand, because he’s too absorbed with listening to her voice. Her degree is in English, but oddly, they have a module together: physics, which Clara was put in by mistake.

Stay, he says, and it won’t be the last time he says that word to her. I’m in it, too. It’ll be fun.

She’s remarkably easy to convince. Okay, she says, and smiles, downing the last of her drink. I’ll stay if you buy me another.

Well, it’s only fair.)

–

They’ve got a few days until their courses start, and it’s becoming a habit: the two of them and everybody else. She’s no longer a stranger to his room; they enjoy each others’ company, and, as she tells him, his bed really _is_ comfortable.

“It’s a nice atmosphere,” she says, passively. “That’s the only reason I’m in here so often. Company’s dreadful.”

He pushes her off the bed and she lands on his rug, laughing. She smacks him with a discarded pillow, but he doesn’t acquiesce. “You shouldn’t insult a friend with a great room and a comfortable bed. Said friend will probably _stop_ allowing you into his room.”

She hits him again, collapsing next to him. “Oh, as if you could keep me out, anyway.”

“Are you planning on breaking down the door? With your immense strength and body mass?”

She smirks, and holds up his room key in front of his eyes, twirling it. “No,” she says charmingly, “but I will steal this, and I’ll let myself in any time I want.”

“What a threat,” he replies, attempting to hold a blank expression. “Imagine seeing your face first thing in the morning. That’d be absolutely horrifying.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, and bounds out of the room, slamming the door to her own. He puts his hands over his face, smiling, and follows.

“Lovers’ quarrel?” Amy calls from the kitchen where she’s sitting with Rory, drinking beer.

He rolls his eyes. He’s picking up Clara’s habits. “Something like that.”

He stares at her door. Well, he’ll just have to play her game better than she does.

–

She lets herself into his room with her stolen key twenty minutes later. He’s stretched out on his bed, smirking. She pauses.

“What do you look so pleased about?” She questions cautiously, taken aback.

His smirk grows. He holds up an identical room key, watching her expression slip into a stupor. “You’re unbelievable,” she says after a brief moment, collecting herself. “You _went_ to the office and _paid for a new key?_ ”

“It’s a possibility,” he says nonchalantly. “Some mentally unhinged woman stole my first one, so I deemed it necessary.”

And she’s back to beating him up with his own pillow, holding back a grin as he cowers and begs for mercy. It’s only when she tosses it to the side and shuts off his lights that he stops fearing for his life – she falls next to him, practiced; there’s always space for her beside him.

“Tell me something about space,” she says, and it’s her way of ensuring that the night will never end.

–

They’re all in the kitchen the next night, and Clara’s playing bartender, pouring them tequila shots. Even John, who isn’t a fan of hard liquor, agrees to participate, though she has to walk him through it.

“Lick your hand, here, between your thumb and index,” she’s demonstrating, pouring the salt. “It’s salt, shot, lime. The order is important.”

He’s grinning. “I’m assuming you do this often.”

“Where’d we get the limes?” Amy says in amazement. “There are, like, twenty in the fridge.”

“John and I bought them earlier,” Clara responds distractedly, “though he wouldn’t let me slice them. Said my technique was all wrong.”

“It was. You were about to chop your fingers off.”

“Ooh, I love a man who knows his way around a kitchen,” River says, lips curling. “You sound like a chef, John.”

He offers her a smile. “Maybe I’ll cook for you sometime,” he says, oblivious. River looks rather enthused for a moment at his boldness, and Clara giggles – she knows he didn’t mean he’d cook specifically for River; he meant all of them, but, well. He’s not the best at catching himself. Clara doubts he’s even aware of how to flirt.

“I’ll cook for you, River,” Jack drawls, leaning on the counter. “Are you a fan of meat?”

Rory chokes on nothing and Amy snorts loudly. Clara’s just impressed the two of them haven’t slept together yet already – she vaguely wonders what the holdup is.

“Okay, ready?” She asks them all, picking up her shot glass. “Go!”

She’s pouring them another within seconds, though Rory’s sputtering _(Wimp,_ Amy says) _,_ John still hasn’t removed the lime from his mouth, and River’s licking her lips in a way that is decidedly _not_ innocent.

“Like it?” Clara inquires once he’s spit out the rind, handing him the salt.

He makes a face. “It’s…bearable.”

“Excellent,” she says, grinning. “Have another.”

Already, he can’t think of anything he wouldn’t do for her smile.

–

(She’s drunk by her second – she’s a lightweight – but they don’t stop until five, when she begins mixing margaritas. Amy’s talking about parents’ day, coming up in the next week, and Clara pauses, listening intently.

Are yours all coming? She’s asking, and this is definitely not a topic of conversation Clara wants to open to the floor. Mine and Rory’s are—

Jack’s nodding, and River hums in agreement.

Clara? John? Amy prods, and Clara jumps to answer first.

Just my dad, she says. John’s going to spend the day with us.

It’s not a plan John knows about, but she’s hoping it’ll distract them. She’s not wrong. Amy _oooh’s_ and says, Wow, introducing the boyfriend to the parents already? You sure move fast.

But River doesn’t budge. John? She presses. Are your parents coming?

Clara holds herself steady. No, she hears him respond quietly. They’re not.

Why not? Amy says, her chin in her palm. Don’t they miss you?

Sometimes, Clara honestly hates drunk people.

Maybe, he replies, but his tone is subdued. Excuse me for a minute.

Clara spins around, plastering a smile on her face, attempting to give John his moment. Here, she says, passing out glasses. There’s more in the pitcher. You can help yourselves.

John’s door closes. Amy glances at it, and then at Clara.

Does he not get along with them, or something? She wonders aloud, misunderstanding.

It’s not to be avoided. Clara’s knuckles turn white against the counter, but it’s not their fault they don’t know the signs.

Okay, she says, sighing; they’re all listening astutely to her. I need you to think of the worst reason somebody’s parents _wouldn’t_ be coming. The worst reason you can imagine. The same reason _only_ my father is coming.

Oh, Amy answers, unprepared. Oh. Shit.

Yeah, Clara says grimly. I’ll be back.)

–

She lets herself into his room. He’s sitting in the darkness underneath his own sky. He’s not crying, but his face is hidden. She lowers herself carefully beside him, lying back until their shoulders are brushing. Neither of them speak at first.

“You know,” he says, but it’s a statement on its own, and not the beginning of one. “I mean – you knew.”

She hums noncommittally, but chooses to answer him anyway. “Yes,” she responds, staring at Saturn. “Yes, I did.”

It’s enough to break him down. “Sometimes I don’t want to be _John_ , the sad, tragic boy whose parents are dead,” he says, unguarded, an arm over his eyes. “I don’t want to be alone.”

The bluntness of his statement disarms her. She reaches down between them and wraps her small fingers around his palm. It’s all she knows how to do. His stars glow overhead. “My mum died when I was sixteen,” she replies, and he tilts his head to look at her, uncovering his face. She can taste autumn in her mouth, fresh rain against overturned dirt. “Who do you want to be?”

“I don’t know,” he answers, returning his gaze to his ceiling. “My parents always wanted a doctor in the family. Which. I’ll kind of be, but of science, instead of…medicine. I like the title, though.”

A smile occupies her mouth. He has this method of comprehension: he winds his way around the point instead of running directly to it, like taking back alleys and leaping over garden fences; it’s endlessly endearing. “Okay,” she says, and he can hear the grin in her voice. “Doctor. You can be the Doctor.”

–

(When they return to the kitchen, it’s apparent that the group has taken it upon themselves to become so fucked that they forget everything anyway. The margarita pitcher is almost gone and Jack and River have already removed the necessary ingredients from the fridge for her to make more.

Those margaritas were _incredible,_ Jack tells her, wringing her hand like he’s meeting royalty.

She’s a tequila magician! Amy screams, pointing at her, and Clara laughs.

John smiles. I think the word is _alcoholic,_ he says, gazing down at her. But I do agree that there’s something magical about her.

Her lungs feel like a desert, rain stolen. Oh. This is what everyone means when they’re talking about that metaphorical teenage wasteland.)

**October**

He lied. Their physics module is decidedly _not_ fun.

“I don’t get this at all,” she’s complaining, her feet pressed against his wall and her head hanging off the side of his bed, her hair falling over his shoulder. He’s sitting on the floor, looking through their textbook.

“It’s not hard,” he says, and she exhales loudly into his ear in protest. He laughs. “Look, come here. I’ll show you.”

She rolls onto her stomach, her chin on one arm, the other hanging around his neck. There are things she’s noticed: she’s begun feeling uneasy if she’s not touching him, and another, he smiles more than he used to. She’s not sure if there’s a correlation, but it’s a nice thought, regardless.

He takes his pencil and starts explaining the diagrams; she _sort-of_ gets it, an hour later, when he gives up and hands her his own coursework.

“Oh, just copy mine,” he says, rubbing his palms against his eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

“I am _not_ ,” she protests, offended. “I’m a capable woman. I now know that _m_ stands for _mass._ ”

He’s trying desperately not to find her funny. “Clara, one of the sample problems involved comparing an automobile’s acceleration rate to the rate of gravity, and the only thing you asked me was the make and model of the car.”

“It was a valid question.”

“You don’t even like cars. Every time we see an above-average looking vehicle on the street you tell me it’s a Porsche.”

“Shut up,” she attempts to say seriously, but her voice cracks and she’s lost it, giggling. She can feel his chest vibrating. His fingers wrap around her wrist out of habit, but it’s delicate, like he’s still unused to the idea of human contact. She leans her temple against his. “We can’t all be geniuses.”

“It’s okay.” His other hand skims the page idly. “I like you just the way you are.” He lowers his eyes and says it with a smile.

–

Amy proposes they all go clubbing Friday night, halfway through the month, citing this great place in town one of her mates recommended to her called _Chapel._ Clara agrees – she actually _enjoys_ going out – and by association, John, as they’ve sort of become a packaged deal. Rory, whose crush on Amy is glaringly obvious by this point, goes along with basically anything she suggests, while Jack and River are game for everything. (Literally. Everything.)

Which is how Clara and John end up at the bar, doing Clara’s favourite drinking activity: tequila shots. It escalates into John asking for something that tastes nicer, leading to he and Clara sampling every fruity drink on the menu until they’re both off their faces, stumbling around – she keeps introducing him as the Doctor, and she has an endless arsenal of catchphrases, including _the doctor is in,_ and _the doctor will see you now,_ and, at one point, _an apple a day keeps the doctor away, so it’s a good thing I don’t eat apples,_ and he laughs so hard he almost falls over.

“Amy!” Clara screams, interrupting her dance with Rory, who looks like he might pass out. “The Doctor, have you met him?”

She’s baffled. “Doctor?” She shouts back, confused. “Doctor who? Is somebody sick?”

Her response is immensely amusing to Clara, who pushes by her with her hand in John’s, headed for an empty couch at the back of the room.

“Doctor, Doctor, Doctor,” she sings, collapsing on the sofa, straightening her dress underneath her. “Sit with me, Doctor. Tell me all about your work.”

“Oh, it’s top-secret research,” he says, tilting his head and staring at her, eyes unfocused. “It’s about people with….multiples of the same organ.”

She’s laughing. “That’s disgusting.”

He smiles. “Maybe,” he replies. “But think of all the good it can do.”

She decides to play along. “Oh?” She asks, lips curled. “How so?”

“For instance,” he says, meeting her eyes, “maybe, if you had two hearts, you’d never die.”

 _Oh._ Her throat feels too dry, like she’s evaporating. _Oh_ , that’s – that’s not at all what she—

But he isn’t finished. “That’s what I want,” he continues, and the shape of his mouth is soft, curves rather than edges. “You to live forever.”

–

It’s Rory who catches them, with Clara’s lips covering John’s in the back of the club under dim, pulsating lights, her bloodstream ninety percent alcohol and her mind shut off. Her hand is on his neck, fingers skimming underneath his jaw, and one of his palms cups her cheek, the other on her waist. There’s something about the two of them together that refuses to let Rory look away – absolutely nothing about their kiss is even distantly casual or unweighted: it’s slow, intense, and _right._ It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen. They look like they belong together.

He watches as Clara pulls back and leans her forehead against John’s, smiling; he can’t hear the very quiet things they’re whispering to each other, but he doesn’t think he deserves to – he’s been allowed enough of a glance into their lives, anyway. He turns around and pretends he was never there.

–

(It’s a good move on Rory’s part, keeping his mouth shut – come morning, Clara and John are both ridiculously hung over and spend the day lying on the floor of the kitchen, wearing sunglasses and drinking glass after glass of water. Rory thinks it’s incredible that the two of them enjoy being in each others’ company even when they have blinding headaches.

I don’t even remember what we did last night, she says to Rory as he steps over her motionless body to get to the sink. Do you?

He thinks of her hand touching John’s jaw, and the curve of John’s mouth, and the words he couldn’t make out over the pulsing beat and thrumming rhythm of the club.

No, he says, but his smile is a secret. No, I don’t remember a thing.)

–

Clara’s prone to leaving her own door cracked, mostly due to the fact that she’s usually always on her way out of it. She doesn’t spend much time in her room, aside from sleep, and she’s got a key to John’s – she feels more and more each day like she ought to just give it up and move in with him. She knows the phrase is _pick your battles,_ but some battles are inevitable: she’d rather raise the white flag at the start.

So it’s a bit of a shock when he slams open her door one evening after she’s gotten out of the shower and stumbles inside, shutting it hurriedly behind him.

“What the bloody hell happened to you?” She asks, pausing in the middle of brushing out her hair, towel wrapped around her body. “You look like you’ve been attacked.”

“ _I have,_ ” he hisses, leaning his weight into the door like someone’s about to break it down. He’s panting slightly and his shirt is wrinkled. “Amy – she’s – fucked off her face, and she—”

Clara’s taken aback hearing him curse – he usually avoids it if he can, meaning that whatever’s happened is severe enough to make him forget his own rules. She studies him more carefully. “And what exactly did Amy _do_?”

He’s turning red, like someone’s struck a match underneath his jaw. “She – she just – grabbed me, and she—”

Clara bursts into laughter. “She _snogged_ you?” She concludes, snickering.

“Yes!” He bristles, looking rather angry that she isn’t as outraged as he is. “Shut—”

Though she can probably guess how that sentence is going to end, he stops it, fully taking her in. She can sense the embarrassed breakdown about to occur. She points her hairbrush at him.

“No,” she commands sternly, but his eyes aren’t locked on her face. “Oh, stop it. I’m not _naked._ This isn’t the eighteen-hundreds, _Doctor._ You’ve seen girls in shorter dresses than this.”

The thing is, she _likes_ the way he’s looking at her. Not like he wants her, but like he’s _scared_ of her. She knows him. There can be no better leverage.

She turns away nonchalantly, and there’s a change in him: he watches her, expression unreadable. But he’s staring at her face, and not at her body – that’s the thing – _that’s the thing._ He _knows_ her body. He’s held her enough, laid beside her enough, touched her enough. He’s never seen it quite so exposed, and it catches him off-guard, but—

He lowers himself onto her bed and waits, too afraid to go back into the hall and face Amy. He idly watches Clara run the hairdryer around her head, and the way her fingers catch over the knots. He admires her profile, and the lines of her cheeks, her nose, her chin. He stops at her lips.

He doesn’t know why, but an image comes to him, of reds and blues and pounding ocean waves hammering a skyline.

He thinks he kissed her in a dream, once.

–

(He sneaks back into his room twenty minutes later, Clara snorting behind him and pushing on his back.

What d'you think she’s gonna do, tear your clothes off? Clara says, rolling her eyes. She’s probably in enough trouble. Open the damn door.

And that’s the end of that; he collapses on his floor like he’s just fought a war, and she takes up his bed, falling into his duvet.

So, she begins, voice muffled; Did you enjoy it?

He sits up quickly. No, he replies in a contrastingly slow tone. I don’t want to kiss Amy.

She opens her eyes, staring at the back of his head. She’s not sure she wants to know _who_ he’d like to kiss, and, likewise, he’s not sure he’d want to tell her. Still, the signs haven’t quite interconnected in her mind.

I’m sleeping here tonight, she says instead, changing the subject. I can’t be bothered.

He shrugs. As long as _you_ don’t try to rip my clothes off, he allows, and she throws a pillow at him.)

–

She’s thinking about it three hours later. “You and Amy. I can’t see it.”

“Can’t you?”

“No.” She makes a face. “It’s – all wrong.”

“Well.” He doesn’t argue with her. “What’s right?”

She contemplates it for a moment. It’s the middle of the night, and they’re lying on their stomachs, and his arm is thrown around her waist. It isn’t an unusual position for them. “You. Doing my physics coursework.”

And then he’s laughing, his voice full of sleep, and his breath on the back of her neck is giving her dreams of wildfire.

“Yes, dear,” he mumbles jokingly, and in her dreams he’ll never let her go.

–

There’s a day when she’s really craving chili, and he agrees to make it for her if she’ll go to the grocery store with him. He teaches her how to tell which vegetables are ripe and how long to wait if they aren’t, and he buys far, far too many ingredients, to the point where they return home and bang on everybody else’s doors, inviting them to a feast.

Clara enjoys the look on River’s face when she realizes the dinner isn’t only for her, whereas Jack appears the most eager to help, asking if there’s anything he can do with a toothy grin and a wink.

(“What can I say, Clara,” he tells her with a flourish, “I’m a people-pleaser.”

“As true as that may be,” she quips back charmingly, “I don’t think I’ll be finding that out for myself, thanks.”)

He’s examining the chili, and his whole face changes after he takes a bite, nodding enthusiastically.

“Incredible,” he says to John, looking at him like he’s about to kiss him. “I bet you’d make _great_ pot brownies.”

It actually strikes Clara as a good idea, which is the problem with most of Jack’s ideas – they always _sound_ good, in theory.

John catches her eye, following her train of thought. “Don’t you dare,” he commands sternly, refraining from a smile. “Tequila’s far enough for now, don’t you think?”

She’s still laughing with him when Amy approaches. “John,” Amy begins gracelessly, clearly trying not to be overheard, “I wanted to say sorry. For…what happened.”

Clara doesn’t pretend like she doesn’t know – it _had_ been her room he’d burst into after the incident, and, either way, they’re all aware that John’s business is Clara’s business. Secrets aren’t exactly a trade they engage in – consciously, anyway.

“It’s okay,” he says, and grins somewhat awkwardly. “No harm done.”

Amy leans around him, grabbing Clara’s attention. “And sorry to you, too,” she says bewilderingly, and then she’s off, clinging onto Rory’s arm, watching River do some odd demonstration with her fingers that’s causing him blush.

Clara’s not sure what to make of the apology; she doesn’t see a reason she’s deserving of one, but John’s staring at her expectantly, like he’s waiting for her to catch on. She shrugs her shoulders. “Don’t look at me, mate,” she says. “I don’t know what she’s saying sorry to me for.”

“Don’t you?” He murmurs quietly, almost to himself. He shakes his head, smiling. “Yeah. Me neither.”

–

Jack comes home one night and calls a flat meeting.

“309 is having a party,” he says, beckoning them all. “It’s gonna be good – and you know what else is looking good? The crowd.”

“Is that your hurry?” Clara asks, poking her head out of John’s room. “You want to get there before all the good ones are taken?”

Jack smiles handsomely. “Oh, they won’t be taken once we get there,” he informs her, grabbing a case of beer from the fridge. “ _We_ are the good ones. And, well, me – I’m probably the best.”

“I’ve had better,” River chimes in, applying lipstick in the hallway mirror.

Jack waves her off, confidence indestructible. “Impossible.”

Clara spins around, looking at John. “So?” She asks. “Feel like going downstairs for a bit?”

“Depends,” he replies, studying the items in his closet. “Are you going to force me to get smashed and watch another Hugh Grant film?”

Her jaw drops in mock exasperation. “Notting Hill is a _classic._ ”

She can’t see his face, but he’s smiling. “Sure, sure,” he agrees, conceding easily. “What should I wear?”

His shirt’s half unbuttoned. She pretends not to notice the lines of his collarbone. “The silver one,” she decides, running the material between her fingers. “It’s casual, but classy. And me – hair up, or hair down? Is the dress all right?”

He examines her for a minute. He hasn’t mastered the art of subtle staring – his eyes linger on her legs, the curve of her hips, her mouth. It’s passable, but borderline. She’s said it before, but she likes the way he looks at her; his gaze doesn’t carry the weight of being invasive or inappropriate – it’s…admiring, in a sense, almost innocently appreciative.

“Hair – up,” he concludes, making a gesture with his hands. “Can you do the thing with the – braids?”

“Oh, the bun?” She cocks her head, glancing into his mirror. “Yeah, simple.”

“The dress is perfect,” he finishes, and smiles shyly. “Red’s a nice colour on you. You look lovely.”

He’s no stranger to complimenting her, but there are times when it gets the best of him. She bites her lip, unusually demure. “Thanks.”

There’s a bang on the door. “Okay, lovebirds,” Jack calls. “Let’s go.”

“One minute,” John responds, but otherwise doesn’t react – they’re both far too used to the jokes. “Clara’s doing her hair.”

She finishes pinning it back, giving herself a once-over, running a finger underneath both of eyes to wipe away any smudges of eyeliner. He slips his hands in his pockets.

“How is it?” She quizzes, meeting his reflection in the mirror. “All right?”

His lips curve, tender. His voice is low and delicate. It’s building.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and the sincerity is unmistakable. “You’re beautiful.”

Her heartbeat lulls, staring at the night sky. She has the sudden urge to compare lifelines. _Stay with me,_ she wants to say, but he breaks her gaze and the moment is over.

–

Jack manages some very quick introductions before slipping away, presumably to find entertainment for the night – two of the girls hosting the party, Rose and Martha, are heading the bar they’ve set up on the kitchen counter, and Rose’s boyfriend, a kid nicknamed ‘Ten,’ has his iPhone plugged into the sound system.

They head for the kitchen first; exchanging pleasantries with the girls, but neither of them say much while they’re getting drinks; John hands Clara the tequila without a word, and she examines the stock, finally reaching for the orange juice.

“What sort of revolting concoction is this?” He scrunches his nose, watching her mix the two. She shrugs.

“Nothing special,” she says. “Tequila Sunrises. I think you’ll like it.”

She hands him a cup. He takes a sip and grimaces slightly, but swallows. She waits. “Bearable,” he allows, licking his lips.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so _dramatic,_ ” she criticizes, but she’s grinning. She’s used to this. Someone catches her interest behind him. “Oh, Jenny’s here; shall we say hello?”

“All right,” he replies, beginning to follow her off. Clara waves goodbye, but John inclines his head at the girls. “Good to see you again, Martha,” he says kindly. “And a pleasure to meet you, Rose.”

Rose gives him a nod. Martha offers him a smile, but appears too flustered to respond. Amy takes notice.

“Martha’s fancied him for ages,” Rose explains, leaning forward, and the girl snorts, her arms crossed. “He’s in one of her maths modules.”

“Not like it matters,” she responds, mindlessly watching him from across the room. “He’s got a girlfriend.”

Amy glances at River, who raises and drops her shoulders in befuddlement. Rose catches the movement. “The small one?” She prompts, jerking her head at Clara, who’s standing beside John.

Rory nearly knocks over the bottle of vodka with his elbow. Amy snickers suddenly, but hurriedly tries to pass it off as a cough when the two of them give her strange looks. River’s smirk grows.

“Oh, yes,” she replies ominously. “His _girlfriend._ ”

“Why’d you say it like that?” Martha asks, furrowing her eyebrows, mouth in a confused half-grin.

“Erm,” Rory starts uncertainly, tone wavering. “They’re not actually… _together._ ”

Martha stares at him dumbly for a minute. Rose immediately laughs. “You’re _joking._ ”

“I’m afraid not,” River chimes in, swirling the wine in her glass. “You’d think so, though, wouldn’t you.”

“Uh, yeah,” Martha answers in disbelief, now openly staring. As they watch, Clara giggles and reaches up until her hand is cupping the back of John’s head, fingers tangled in his hair, and then she’s pulling him down, whispering something in his ear. He’s smiling a moment later, but it takes a second for Clara’s arm to fall, and when it does it’s like he’s picking up where she’s left off – his palm presses against her back, fingers splayed. It’s like the two of them don’t know how to _not_ touch each other.

Rose’s expression says it all; she crooks one eyebrow and lets out a snort that sounds as if she’s choking on it in her throat. “Oh, _please,_ ” she nearly cries, finding the concept absolutely hilarious. “Who do they think they’re kidding?”

Martha raises her glass like she’s making a toast. “I’ll give it a week,” she bets.

“I wish,” Amy replies, studying them. “It’s already been like this for a month and a half. I’ll give them…forever, at this rate.”

Rory makes an odd noise, but doesn’t speak. Amy looks at him strangely. “What, you disagree? You live with them, too.”

“Oh, you’re Jack’s flatmates.” Rose puts it together, unconcerned, but Martha interrupts with, “ _Live_ with them—? They live together?”

“In each others’ rooms, more like,” Amy answers, but Rory disregards them both, continuing.

“It’s not that,” he says slowly. “They’ve already…I mean, something _has_ happened, between them.”

River becomes noticeably more interested. “Has it?” She asks, almost impressed. “When?”

He’s drunk enough to tell them, even though he probably shouldn’t. Well. It’s not like it matters, really. “The first time we went to Chapel. I saw them, in the back.”

“ _Snogging?_ ” Amy finishes, shocked. “But they don’t act like—”

“They don’t remember.”

“Wow,” Martha says, and Rose is already pouring another round of shots. “So it’s one of those, is it? Boy and girl meet, fall in love, don’t tell each other, and have a drunken snog they both conveniently forget about.”

“We’ll all drink to that,” Rose declares, and by the time their glasses are empty Clara and John are gone.

–

(I don’t know if I have the patience for this, River says afterward. We’ve given them their time. I’d like a turn.

Rory chokes on his beer. Amy raises an eyebrow. You? She replies dubiously. Don’t you eat boys like him for breakfast?

And lunch, and dinner, River answers shamelessly, pulling a sly grin from her lips. What can I say, I’ve got a sweet tooth.

Martha doesn’t know whether to be admiring of her or jealous of her, but Rose is giggling, amused.

Well, good luck, Amy says dismissively. I don’t care _who_ dates him at this point, just as long as _somebody_ does.)

–

Clara sits on the counter, tapping her heels against the wooden cabinets underneath. Her feet don’t touch the floor. He’s measuring spices. It’s ten in the evening on a Saturday, and they’re the only two home.

“Well?” She questions expectantly. He has his back to her. “Are you going to say yes?”

He cracks his neck, stirring the sauce on the stove. “I don’t know,” he answers slowly. “I mean, she's—”

“Irresistible.”

“Something like that.”

“It’s River.” She thrums her fingertips against the surface of the table. “She has that effect on people.”

There’s an obvious difference between how he’s reacting to River and how he’d previously reacted to Amy; they’re trying not to talk about it. River’s dangerous, threatening; she carries this attractive air of being almost unobtainable, and it’s magnetic. It makes people – _want_ her, purely because they’re always under the impression that they can’t have her.

“I think…I like her,” he says uncertainly. Clara has this image of cocking a gun. “But I don’t know if I like her…the way she wants me to.”

She blinks. She’s not used to anybody not liking River. Sometimes Clara thinks River was born to be loved by everyone. “Why not?”

He adds the tomatoes to the frying pan. They sizzle against the heat, oil spitting up at him. He doesn’t answer her. The silence isn’t unpleasant; just contemplative. He flicks the burner off five minutes later.

He approaches her holding a serving spoon dipped in some sort of tan sauce. She opens her mouth, compliant. He pretends not to watch her lips wrapping around the wood, and the stain on the tip of her tongue.

She’s nodding her head before she’s even swallowed, looking at him appreciatively. “Oh, yeah,” she says, enthusiastic. “That’s fantastic, what is that?”

“Chicken tequila fettuccine,” he replies, grinning. “I thought you’d like it. Your three favourite foods combined into one.”

“Is tequila a food?”

“The way you drink it, yes.”

She slaps his arm, laughing. “Shut up,” she commands. His grin fades slightly. He leans against the counter next to her.

“I don’t know,” he says, blending into seriousness. He’s looking at her intensely. “Do you think I should go?”

She misses the implication of his words, shrugging her shoulders. “What’s the harm in it?” She replies. “If you like her, why not?”

It doesn’t seem to be the answer he’s hoping for, but that’s another set of implications altogether, and, well, ones he’s not sure they’re ready for yet, anyway.

–

She’s waiting for him in his room the night of his date, reading one of her textbooks, attempting to finish her coursework. She’s lying on her stomach, kicking her legs leisurely behind her. His key turns in the lock. The door opens.

He’s completely unsurprised to see her stretched out on his comforter. “Still making full use of that spare key I paid twenty quid for, I see.”

She grins. “I paid you back. I slipped it under your pillow when you weren’t looking.”

“Ah. And here I just thought the tooth fairy was being rather generous.”

“Why, are you already losing yours?” She asks, sitting up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

He smiles, plopping on the floor, his back pressing against her knees. “What, like I’m secretly an old man?”

“Well, you look enough like one.” She rests her chin against the crown of his head, arms falling over his shoulders. He’s opening the messages on his phone. “Old and rich.”

She can feel his body vibrating with laughter. “Sounds like your type,” he snipes; he’s gotten better at this.

She smacks him lightly. “Shut up.”

He opens the chat under River’s name. She peeks down; she knows he wants her to see it. The last text reads: _not even a kiss? ooh, i love a man who plays hard to get. lovely evening, sweetie, hope to do it again soon. though maybe with a little more…spice. xxx_.

Clara’s torn between giggling uncontrollably and unhinging her jaw out of shock. She winds up in a mix of both, snorting into his hair. “At least she’s creative,” she manages, and then he’s losing it too, and they’re thrown into fits of hysteria. Her nails scratch against the material of his vest.

“But really,” she says, once they’ve calmed down some, “you didn’t even kiss her?”

He half-shrugs, clearly at a loss. “It didn’t…feel right,” he replies, struggling with the words in his mouth. “I don’t know.”

Her teeth feel hot. She’s not sure of the connection. “So – do we have a definitive answer, then?” Her fingers tap against his ribs. She shifts her jaw on the top of his head.

“I…like her. But as a friend. It was a nice night, and the flirting was…fun, but I don’t think I want to come home to her at the end of the day.”

It holds a literal and metaphorical meaning. She gets it. There’s a relief, somewhere, but she’s not sure why—all that comes tumbling out of her is, “Good.”

He stills, but she doesn’t take it back. She’s made her mistakes and spoken her fair share of impulsive thoughts, and she knows this isn’t one of them. She won’t lie: it’s a burden she carries, being afraid that he’ll find someone who isn’t her to occupy his time.

He’s afraid to ask, but he does it regardless. “Why?”

“Because,” she says, trying to be casual, “I’d like to keep my place in your life.”

She can feel him smiling. He reaches around behind him and hugs her at an awkward angle, but he doesn’t care. Her arms cross, hands on his shoulders.

“As if I’d ever be able to get rid of you, anyway,” he says, and it’s the way it’s supposed to be.

–

(Now, let me guess. You weren’t just waiting up to hear all about my thrilling night out, were you? He asks, grabbing her textbook from where it’d been knocked on the floor. What do you need help with?

It’s our physics work, she complains, falling dramatically back onto the bed, shifting one of her legs over his shoulder. I don’t understand it.

He leans his temple against her knee. Give it to me, he answers, smiling. I’ll do it.)

**November**

The problem with John is that the things he thinks and the things he does are often in conflict; so when they’re walking to class on a chilled, damp morning in November, and he says, “I’m going out with River again,” Clara isn’t exactly surprised.

She raises an eyebrow. “Well,” she answers, “it’s not like I didn’t see this coming.”

He frowns. “How?”

“I know you. You’re not the best at standing your ground.”

“I do when it matters.” He bites the inside of his cheek, and she waits for it. “I don’t want to…to hurt her feelings. One more date won’t hurt.”

There. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag. “Just don’t lead her on.”

“I’ll tell her,” he replies, determined. “I’ll tell her tonight.”

Whether he’s assuring her or convincing himself, Clara can’t tell, but either way, she’s sure whatever map he’s following is only getting him more lost.

–

(I’m not _lost,_ he tries to argue. I’m one of the only people who could probably never _get_ lost. I can track the position of the sun! And the stars! And I—

It’s a _metaphor,_ John, you’re perfectly capable of losing your way around the female brain. And before you take that literally – me calling you _Doctor_ doesn’t actually make you one.

You know, I really don’t like you. Shut up.)

–

She’s on Skype with her father when the banging on her door starts. She jerks out her earphones, giving her dad an apologetic look. “Sorry, one second.”

Her feet pad along her rug. She cracks it open, peering into the hall. “John?”

“Hello,” he says unevenly, smiling oddly. “Would it be alright if I came in?”

She steps back and allows him entry. He’s swaying on his feet. She squints at him. “Are you drunk?”

“If I say yes, are you going to be cross with me?”

She rolls her eyes, biting back a smile. “No.”

“Oh. Well, then, yes. I am.” He grins dumbly, and unceremoniously sinks onto the floor, leaning against her bed.

“Why would I be mad?” She inquires, peeking down at him.

He raises his shoulders like he’s about to shrug, but apparently forgets to drop them. He’s out of it. “Because,” he starts, raising a finger and pointing at her, “because I don’t drink with other people. I drink with you, you know, it’s like, our thing. Well. One of our things. We have quite a lot of _things,_ don’t we, Clara?”

She’s trying not to laugh. “We do, Doctor. I think it’s okay to share them once in awhile.”

He looks absolutely off his face – vest rumpled, shoes untied, hair ruffled – she needs to take a picture of this and use it to blackmail him later.

“Oh, good,” he replies, closing his eyes. “I like it when you call me that, by the way. It’s nice. Very nice. D'you think I’d make a good doctor?”

“No. You can’t even watch Grey’s Anatomy without cringing.”

“Ah. Very true. I do value your honesty, if nothing else.”

She scrunches her nose. “Gee, _thanks._ ”

He waves a hand lazily at her. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I value you. In general. As a person. A woman. A woman of an approximate five feet, two inch height. How specific would you like me to be, to prove my devotion? You’re brunette, it’s a lovely brown – seal brown, or bistre; my mother used to paint a lot – and your eyes, they’re quite pretty, too, some other shade of brown. Sienna.” His fingers reach up and catch a loose strand of hair, twisting it over his knuckles. He doesn’t talk about his family much. He’s momentarily distracted, observing her. “You know, I value brown as a colour on you,” he continues, but his voice is softer, full of delicate emotions. “I’m not colourblind, that’s good, isn’t it? I can see all of your – your lovely shades of brown.”

She’s about to crack; her palm is covering her mouth. “Oh, _wow_.”

“I want to see yours,” he tells her seriously, like there’s a point she isn’t getting. “Yours, and not River’s.”

“You’d…rather look at me?” She attempts to interpret. “Is that what you’re saying?”

There’s a stretch of silence. He blinks. “Have I said something?” He asks, leaning to the left. “Whatever it is, you’re probably right. You’re always right. But I never told you that.”

“ _Oh-kay._ ”

“I’m tired. Must I continue?”

She holds up a hand. “No,” she says firmly. “No, you have – proven yourself. You can sleep.”

She means in bed, but he sort of leans over and falls onto her rug, spreading out on his back.

“Good,” he mumbles, still grinning, and then he’s gone. She stares at him for a moment, unsure of what to do with him, but decides to leave him there for the time being. She slides back in front of her laptop. Her dad is kicking back with a beer, and from what she can see, he’s laughing harder than she’s let herself. She puts her headphones back in.

“ _Ooh, Clara, all your lovely shades of brown,_ ” her dad mimics, nearly crying. She contemplates hanging up on him.

“Oi, quiet,” she responds, threatening. “You be nice to him. He’s having trouble.”

“With what? University?”

“No, a girl.”

Dave looks aghast. “What, he’s got a girl who _isn’t_ you?”

Something about the comment rubs her the wrong way. “Okay,” she says, “we’re finished here.”

He’s smirking. “Where is he now?”

“Passed out on my floor.”

“Well, put him to bed,” Dave says, inclining his beer at her. “Properly.”

There’s a rope knotting in the pit of her stomach and she doesn’t know why, only that whatever she’s feeling is going to start climbing out. “I will,” she says, but her throat is dry. “Love you. Goodnight.”

He echoes the sentiment, and then he hangs up.

–

(She swings her leg over the side of her bed, looking down at John. She slides off and bends, her hand on his chest, shaking him.

John, she whispers; John, wake up.

He mumbles incoherently, fingers curling around her wrist sleepily. What?

Come on. Time for bed.

She tugs at his shoulder with her other hand, attempting to lift him. I’m in bed, he protests, keeping his eyes shut. Shhh.

You’re not in bed, John, she informs him, panting with the effort. You’re on the floor. You can stay with me. It’s right there.

He cracks an eye open, and sits up unsteadily. He stands slowly, leaning on her; his breath is warm in her hair.

So loud, he mutters lowly. You’re so loud for someone so small.

He falls face-first into her bedspread, but still has the decency to kick off his shoes. She almost laughs.

Right, she replies, exhausted from his weight. Sorry about that.

It’s okay, he says, burying his nose against her pillow. I don’t mind.)

–

She feels him stir. She’s lying flat on her back. His head is resting on her shoulder and his arm is around her waist, and she’s texting, her hands wrapping around him to balance her phone on his back. His fingers curl over her hip, and he stills.

“Morning,” she greets, sending a text to Jack, who’d asked if they wanted omelettes. John relaxes at the sound of her voice. A grin grows across her face. “Were you afraid I was River?”

She means it as a joke, but he only exhales sleepily against her collarbone, and it feels like he’s melting into her. He shifts his body until he’s half on top of her, listening to her heartbeat echo through her veins.

“No,” he murmurs quietly, tiredly. He’s not all there, yet, still lost in the dizziness of waking up – and probably hung over. “No, I knew it was you.”

There’s a heaviness to the statement that shouldn’t be there; her blood turns solid. She wants to know how – how he knew it was her, and more importantly, _why;_ it’s too implicit, too accusing, too—

— _close_. The weight sits on her like her walls are shrinking and her ceiling is collapsing. She drops her phone and her arms around him become an embrace. She holds him and she doesn’t drown.

–

(Later, he’ll say, it’s the way you breathe, the pattern of your lungs expanding, contracting; it’s your collarbone, your hips, I recognize your skin, your smell, jasmine and coconuts—

In that split second he regained consciousness and felt a body, it was her because it had to be her, because there was nobody else to him _except_ her. It was her because it’s always been her and it always will be her.

Do you understand, Clara? He’ll whisper, and she’ll nod, pupils wide and inhaling the night sky. It’s _you._ )

–

Unsurprisingly, he has one last date with River.

She stares at him expectantly when he informs her of this. She counts the creases in his forehead.

“Don’t you give me that look,” he says sternly, poking her. “I told her we needed to talk. So we’re going to dinner, and I’ll tell her the truth.”

Clara makes a noncommittal noise, but doesn’t say anything, turning away with her hands in the air.

“Fine,” she replies, surrendering, dropping back onto the bed where she’d been writing a paper on her laptop. “You’ve clearly got it under control. When are you going?”

He sort-of grimaces. “Tonight. Not too late, though, just before your lit lecture.”

“Well.” She doesn’t have much to say to him. “Best of luck, mate.”

“ _Thanks._ ” His tone is exceedingly sarcastic. He deposits his bag next to his bed. “Your lack of confidence in me is obvious, by the way; you might want to work on that.”

She flips a page. “Come off it. Not even _you_ can be that clueless. If it’s not tonight, it’s never, and you’ll be right fucked.”

He casts a glare in her direction, taking a seat at his desk chair. She’s smiling. He doesn’t answer.

He pulls out a notebook a few seconds later and attempts to get started on some work; she listens to the tapping of his pen for five minutes before closing her laptop and looking up at him almost exasperatedly.

“Nervous?” She asks, staring at the pen pointedly.

His expression changes to abashment, and he grins somewhat apologetically. She pats the space beside her on the bed.

“Come here,” she says, and he stands. “Tell me something about space.”

He shuts off the lights, and the universe spins on.

–

She gets home at precisely – the wrong – moment—

Her class runs late. She’s exhausted; she still hasn’t finished her coursework for tomorrow – it’s physics, go figure – and she hasn’t had dinner yet, either. She’s decidedly _not_ in a good mood.

She opens the front door, still digging in her bag for her own room key, which is why she doesn’t see them. At first.

But they don’t notice her at all: River and John are standing in the hallway, bodies pressed together, and River looks like she’s consuming him, the way her lips are slanted. The image hits Clara hard – John’s hands behind his back, River’s palms on his face, both pairs of eyes closed – it severs her arteries, her veins, her aorta, and her heart free-falls. They’re completely oblivious to her presence, until—

 _Fucking_ fire doors.

It slams shut behind her, loudly and suddenly, and John’s head whips up and around, gaze immediately locking on her own. She doesn’t want to look at him, she doesn’t want to look at either of them; there’s this sick, frothy feeling bubbling in her stomach and for a moment she hopes she’s hallucinating—

“Clara—”

She’s not. She shoves her key in the lock without thinking and hurriedly lets herself in, forcing the door closed behind her.

There are things, she thinks, that probably _should_ be kept secret between them.

–

(He pulls River’s hands from his cheeks, almost on instinct. Clara’s lock clicks into place. He takes a step away from River, and pauses to look her in the eye.

I’m sorry, he says, clearly agitated though his tone is steady; I’d rather be friends. I know this hasn’t been fair to you, and that I lead you on, and I’m sorry. This shouldn’t have happened.

And he’s off again, his fingers tugging at Clara’s door handle, and the intense stillness that occurs in the minute before she lets him in is shattering.

Jack flicks the light on in the kitchen, where he’s apparently been sitting the entire time. Tea? He asks without any trace of irony. River slides onto the bar stool.

That’s it? She questions, one eyebrow raised. No stern lecture? No 'I told you so’?

He shrugs, making her a cuppa. You’re a smart woman, River, he answers. You knew you didn’t stand a chance.

River’s mouth slips into a smirk. Well, she says dismissively, I had quite a nice time.

Jack smiles, showing all of his teeth. He clinks his mug against hers.

Cheers.)

–

They stand a metre apart, staring at each other, hands clenched into fists. She feels like she’s been bruised. Her chest throbs. He’s afraid to touch her.

“Clara.” Her name sounds the same as the stars that come pouring out of his mouth, and it hurts her. “Clara, please—”

Begging has always lead to vicious cycles, and she won’t let them become a circle. There’s only one question tugging at her tongue.

“Do you want her?” She accuses, her tone biting. She can’t stop the bitterness, or the betrayal she has no claim to feel. “Tell me the truth. I thought I knew you.”

She’s saying more than she means to say, and it isn’t quite all adding up; math has never been her strong suit. He’s following along. He spreads his fingers. “No,” he murmurs; he’s on a learning curve. “You do know me. No, I don’t want her.”

“What were you thinking?” She asks, and her anger is striking; she can’t give herself the time to think about where it’s coming from. She blinks and all she sees are red high heels and matching lipstick.

He takes a step forward cautiously. “I _wasn’t,_ ” he tries to explain, pressured. “She just – kissed me. I don’t know. I didn’t think.”

“I don’t understand.” She needs something solid to hold on to. “You weren’t – you weren’t objecting. I saw you.”

He’s grasping for words to give to her like they’re flowers, voice desperate. “I _don’t_ want her,” he denies again, moving closer. “I want—”

He stops, breathing in, staring at her like he’s never seen her before. Her spine straightens. The air in the room shifts delicately; there are too many of these in-between moments.

The silence roars inside of her. He loses the words inside of his mouth. He understands the importance of finding the right ones.

It takes a moment, but it builds, an earthquake swelling below their feet. “If it came down to a choice,” he begins, quietly but seriously, eyes boring into hers, “between you and anybody else, I would choose you. Every time.”

He could kiss her. The thought punches through him suddenly. He could kiss her, but he won’t.

She ’s taken aback by the admission; it’s not what she expected from him, nor is it something she knew she needed to hear. It’s too big of a statement. She doesn’t know what to do with it.

It’s also a sad one, and he realizes it; he turns his palms toward her in a surrender and ends with, “You are all I have.”

It fills her ribs with hairline fractures. “Okay.” Her throat tightens around her voice. She has the urge to cry without exactly understanding the emotion behind it. “Okay.”

His fists clench again. He looks more lost than she’s ever seen him. “Can I…” He swallows. “Can I – hug you?”

She hesitates, but her fingers reach for him of their own accord, wrapping around his shirt. His arms settle around her back gently. His chin rests against the top of her head. He still smells like River.

She can’t do it. It’s short, but it’s enough. “Go shower,” she says, gaze averted. Her vision is blurred through her eyelashes. “You need it.”

He senses the comment for what it really is, and takes a step back. “Are you okay?”

She purses her lips. “You can do my physics work after,”she says, in place of a real answer. He manages a weak smile, rocks on his feet, and by the time he’s left the room she’s remembered how to breathe again.

–

(He never asks about it. She wouldn’t know what to say to him if he did. _You’re my best friend._ That’s one, maybe. She could mimic him: _You’re all I have._ Or the simplest, the truest: _Don’t go._

She won’t beg. She meant what she said about circles.

But the climax occurs two days later; she’s been avoiding River. They live together. It doesn’t exactly work out.

River catches her in the kitchen and leans against the doorway. Clara’s caught in the headlights; she doesn’t have a direction to run.

River isn’t the type for formalities; her mouth half-curls, uncaring as ever. It’s all right, you know, she says.

Clara stares; Sorry?

About John, she clarifies, though her smirk grows. He can’t help how he feels. I know that.

Something threading through her tone makes Clara uncomfortable, like there’s a point she’s missing – but then again, she always feels like that around River; River knows everything.

She fumbles, unsure of how to proceed. Still, I’m sorry about that, she says. And I’m sorry about how I – reacted.

River waves a hand dismissively. Oh, it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know any better at the time, did you?

It’s rhetorical; Clara doesn’t bother to answer, not that she’d have any idea what to say, anyway. River makes her away around the pantry, pulling out a bottle of wine, which she proceeds to uncork. Clara stands awkwardly, watching, until River glances back at her.

Am I in your way? She asks nonchalantly, referencing the carton of juice in her hands. She moves to the side.

Clara starts, and opens the fridge. Not anymore, she says, and offers River a slightly confused smile, who seems to find the response amusing.

She pauses on her way out of the kitchen. She has a debt she can’t settle. Sorry, she echoes herself. Sorry again.

It’s the best she can do. River’s grin reveals her teeth, and Clara’s stuck on the outskirts of a private joke.

Oh, I knew what I was getting into, she responds mysteriously; There’s never been any room for the rest of us.

They’re having two different conversations; that much is apparent. Clara’s painting half the canvas and refusing to acknowledge the rest. It’s the art of confessions: somewhere in time, she’s not alone in her bed. She thinks of River as a gypsy, beckoning her with heavily jeweled hands and a glimpse into the future, Apollo laughing in the sun as Icarus melts.

Later, John’s reading an article out loud to her about something called the Wow! signal, contemplating the existence of extraterrestrial civilizations, and she observes him idly: she can’t picture anyone else. The idea burns, gnawing at the base of her skull.

Oh. She guesses these are what they call _growing pains_.)

–

The pieces come together near the end of November. She’s talking to Rory, who sometimes studies in the hall when he’s stressed – he’s prone to claustrophobia. She’s waiting for John to get out of the shower; Amy’s asleep, and River and Jack have fucked off somewhere.

“How’re things with Amy?” She asks, inspecting her nails – they need a fresh coat of paint.

He blushes. He seems to struggle with a reply. “I don’t know,” he confesses, battling with honesty. “Sometimes it’s me, and sometimes I feel like – like I could be anybody, and it wouldn’t matter to her. Sometimes I feel like she just wants _someone,_ you know? Anyone.”

She hadn’t signed up for an in-depth talk, but he’s so earnest and distressed she can’t help but pity him. “I don’t think it’s like that, mate,” she says sympathetically, and he glances at her, hopeful. “I mean – _look_ at her. Amy’s gorgeous. Guys probably go bonkers over her all the time. If she wanted someone else, she’d have them, I promise.”

He smiles appreciatively. “Well,” he replies, “you’re not wrong there.”

“Be confident.” She pats his hand, grinning. “At least you’ve got someone.”

“What, and you don’t?”

She gives him an odd look. “No?”

“Come on, Clara,” he says, almost disbelieving. “Really? You and John – nothing?”

She laughs. “No. Still no.”

He stares at her for a moment, and then shrugs, seemingly letting it go. “It’s funny, is all,” he says, retreating to the textbook in his lap. “You’re the only one who doesn’t show an interest in him, and yet, you’re the only one who’d probably have a chance.”

Her tongue stings. “What?”

He meets her eyes now, tapping his pen against the pages. “Come on, Clara,” he repeats, like he’s about to tell her something almost boringly evident. “He absolutely worships you. And you – you’re devoted to him.”

She swallows. Her instinct is to deny, but it’s everything she’s needed to hear from someone who isn’t a voice in her own mind, and she doesn’t know how to trust herself. “How are you so sure?”

“It’s obvious,” he says flatly, and pauses, as if unsure of whether or not he should continue. There’s no point now, he decides; they’re all out of things to lose. “I – caught you together, actually. In September, the first time we went to Chapel. You were sitting at the back of the room with him, on the couch, and you were – I mean, you looked pretty, erm…pretty involved. But it was clear neither of you remembered in the morning, so I never said anything.”

She’s thrown, but she’s not unable to comprehend it: there’s something else. This is one of those defining moments. _That’s what I want._ The words are in his voice. _You to live forever._

“Oh, fuck,” she says blankly, experiencing it for the second time.

Rory doesn’t laugh. He understands the fine line between falling and hitting the ground.

She’ll appreciate that, later; but for now, she stands and leaves him in the hallway, carrying a new ghost.

–

(It’s not the first conversation Rory’s had. There was John, a week after the incident with River: _I feel bad,_ he’d said. _It wasn’t her, though. It was me._

Heard that line before.

 _It’s true, mate._ He’d taken a breath. _I don’t know. It’s complicated._

Always is.

_Yeah, well. And, Clara…I think I – I don’t know, but I—_

Are you sure you want to finish that sentence?

John had eyed him, hard. _No,_ he’d finally answered, looking away. _No, I’m not sure_.)

–

She lets herself into his room. He’s already dressed, straightening his bowtie; he catches her reflection in the window and smiles.

“Sorry,” he says apologetically. “I wasn’t that long, was I?”

She watches him, full of bumbling, wrong turns. She never really learned this lesson. “No,” she says quietly. “I just – wanted to talk to you.”

He frowns. She’s creating space; it’s not like her. He asks, “Alright, Clara?”

Silence. There’s a measure of bars, and then—

“Rory said some stuff.”

She’s never seen the merit in beating around the bush.

He pauses. “What kind of stuff?” He questions cautiously, and she’s surprised to see the blood burning up his ears. He won’t meet her eyes. She takes a careful step towards him. She’s defensive only because she knows what this will mean if she isn’t right.

“Just stuff.” It can wait. He hovers, uncertain. The atmosphere is bearing down on them. She fidgets with her fingers.

“Okay,” he says. He knows when not to push her, but the anticipation is eating away at him.

He’s stopped breathing. She can feel his anxiety building. There’s no other way to go about it—

“Do you _like_ me?”

The enunciation saves him from misunderstanding. She keeps her tone plain, on the edge of fear. In the split second before he open his mouth, she falters, and she shakes her head; she’s afraid of trapping him. Holes and ditches won’t get him to admit to anything. He parts his lips and stills.

She inhales slowly. She wants the truth. She puts her knuckles against her forehead, thinking. She understands him, she understands him better than _anyone,_ and he’d rather die than admit something like this out loud—

His fingers curl into fists deep in his pockets. He’s rocking on his feet. His stare has locked onto her elbow, unmoving. She takes a breath.

Her voice is lower, more focused. “If I were to kiss you,” she begins, and he freezes completely, “right now, if I kissed you right now – would you kiss me back?”

He swallows. The solar system unfolds behind her as she moves closer. He swears the sun is drying out his mouth.

“Is this a trick question?” He says, looking rather frightened of her. “If I say yes, are you going to – to be cross with me, or – not want to be friends, or something—”

She smiles unwillingly at how unintentionally sincere he is. She presses her palm against her jaw. He fidgets with his hands.

“Doctor,” she replies, raising her head until he can see the lights parading in her eyes, “Say yes.”

His tongue slips out and wets his lips. “Yes.”

She hesitates on her toes, leaning up, and then paints her mouth over his own. His body sighs into her. She wonders how long he’s been holding on to this, how many times he’s held her hand or kissed her forehead or laid beside her and wished it meant something more, how many times—

His fingertips meld into her skull. Her lips part on instinct and he bleeds himself into her, inhabiting all the empty space inside her body. She can feel his teeth. She doesn’t weigh that much, but she’s able to push him back until he falls against the bed, and then he’s looking up at her, darker than she’s ever seen him, a mess of hair against a swollen mouth, and she _smirks_ ; he’s reminded of a hunter, of an inhumanly beautiful predator waiting to strike. He’s so tall she only has to bend slightly to kiss him again, and she’s becoming bolder, her fingers on the buttons of his shirt—

She can _feel_ the questions about to tumble out of his mouth. “Oh, I don’t care, I don’t care,” she says breathlessly, preemptively answering his remark, “it’s been three months coming, three months of – of lying in your bed and going out at night and sitting in the kitchen until four in the morning, and—I didn’t realize it before, but I—”

She’s attempting to undo his bowtie. His hands are splayed low against her back, pulling her to him. He’s trying to remember the alphabet. “You—what?”

“ _Want_ you,” she murmurs urgently, finally pulling it off from around his collar. “ _I_ want you.”

There’s a foreign possessiveness in the way she wraps her tongue around the _I_ that he finds desperately appealing, and he presses his lips against her neck, liking the drop of her jaw against his hair in a quiet “ _oh.”_

Oh _._ If he could taste her skin for the rest of his life, he would. He thinks he’s never really wanted anything before this moment. _Oh._

–

Her spine curves, jutting against his knuckles. Her lipstick is smeared and he’s running his other thumb over the corner of her mouth and she’s smiling. He kisses her again because he can, because he wants her to stay and doesn’t know how to say it out loud. The look in her eyes reminds him of a supernova.

He leans his forehead against hers. “I don’t – want you,” he begins, and winces, but she’s used to his convoluted sentence structure and doesn’t respond. He’s thankful for it. “I mean, I _do_ want you – obviously – but I don’t just…that’s not all. I don’t _just_ want you. I need you.”

He sounds like his voice is about to shatter, and she realizes how difficult it must be for him, admitting he needs anything at all – let alone another person. Another person who—who might—

“Don’t go.”

 _There_ it is, and it hits her hard, how he’s almost begging her; there is so little distance between their bodies but it’s still enough space for her to leave, and that’s terrifying to him, she understands him like she’s living inside of his irises; so she does the only thing she can think of: she shifts below the sheet and ducks her head underneath his chin, pressing against him in every way their skeletons allow.

“I won’t,” she says, but he needs more than that. “Your bed is _much_ comfier than mine. Memory foam mattress.”

And then he’s laughing into the heat and sweat and heaviness of the air, and everything is all right.

–

(What did Rory say? He asks again, and she flushes – something unusual for her so late in the game. She’s fortunate he can’t see her.

Erm, she begins brilliantly, unsure of where to start; well, our kiss just now…wasn’t our first kiss.

He stills. What?

She exhales against his collarbone. You know the first night we went to Chapel?

No, he replies. I don’t remember it.

Exactly.

Oh. _Oh._

Yeah.

Well, he murmurs after a pause, it’s that nice we got it out of the way so early. It makes this tryst significantly less uncomfortable.

She laughs, and the sound ricochets through him pleasantly.

Shut up.)

–

Amy opens her door to find Rory still sitting in the hallway, staring intensely, it seems, at John’s room.

“That bad, is it?” She asks, peeking down at him. She figures his nerves haven’t yet relinquished their hold on him; in her opinion, he takes his tutorials a bit too seriously.

He tears his eyes away, glancing up at her briefly. “Sorry?”

“Coursework getting the best of you?” She prompts again, but he’s already turned back. She nudges his leg with her foot. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I think it’s happened,” he says, continuing to stare.

Her gaze darts between Rory and John’s door; she’s still groggy, and processing takes her power she doesn’t have.

“Wait,” she says, thumping to the floor beside him. “You mean—”

“Yep.”

“How do you know?”

He’s receiving that question a lot lately, it feels like. “I told Clara what I saw in September. She went into John’s room and neither of them have left yet. That was an hour and a half ago. They had dinner plans.”

Amy exhales. “So this might be it.”

“This might be it.”

–

(River and Jack arrive home twenty minutes later. Amy’s eating crisps and Rory’s made a sandwich. They’re sitting on the floor, perched like owls, watching.

River raises an eyebrow in immediate understanding and Jack exhales slowly. A smile unfurls below her voice. Has it happened?

Amy nods once, crinkling the bag up. Jack curses and River holds out her hand.

Fuck, Jack says. This one, she knows everything.

Amy snorts loudly. Did you two have a _bet?_

Of course, River replies, grinning. It keeps things lively, doesn’t it?)

–

Clara sits up in bed, stretching. John presses a hand against her spine; she’s making an art of the way bones shift and lock underneath skin. His fingers dip through her hair, sweeping it to the side. She shivers.

“None of that, now,” she chastises, smacking at his arm without looking. “I’m starving; we were supposed to go to dinner two hours ago.”

He draws back his hand, but he’s grinning. “Yes, dear. Sorry. I’ll restrain myself in the future.”

“I didn’t say that.” She tilts her head, rewarding him with a quick smile. “I’ll be more accommodating once you’ve fed me.”

“ _'Once I’ve fed you,'”_ he mimics, rolling his eyes. “What are you, some sort of ravaged wild animal?”

“No, but I might start acting like one if you keep mocking me.” She hooks her bra on, unashamed.

He sits up, acquiescing. “That sounds threatening. What are you going to do, eat me?”

She turns around, staring him dead in the eye, smirking. He can’t help the audible swallow that occurs in his throat. _Oh, shit._ He should have known better. He swears he can see a gleam radiating from deep inside her pupils.

Her mouth curls. Her lips are red and her hair falls just above the curves of her breasts.

“I might,” she says dangerously, and, well, he won’t go picking _that_ fight again.

–

The door opens, and they’re met with one of the strangest sights thus far: Amy, Rory, Jack and River are sitting on the hallway floor, playing cards.

They _all_ look like deer in the headlights for a moment. Clara inclines an eyebrow. “What the bloody hell is this about?”

“We’re helping Rory study,” Amy answers stupidly, dropping her cards. River puts a hand over her face. Neither of them buy it, but Clara doesn’t care, and John doesn’t particularly want to find out.

“Right,” Clara says. They step over one of Jack’s outstretched legs to get to the door. He calls, “Bit of a late dinner, isn’t it?”

Clara only shrugs. John replies, “We got sidetracked,” nonchalant and unapologetic. It’s the best acting he’s ever done in his life.

But he slips: he opens the door for her and his hand lingers a little long on her lower back, and before the door shuts, Clara tangles her fingers between his.

Rory says, “Finally.”

–

They end up at a pub down the street called The Rose & Crown, purely because the food is good and mildly inexpensive and the atmosphere is intimate enough that they can get away with sitting unreasonably close to each other – the weather is frosty, too, meaning neither of them feel like searching any further. It’s a Thursday night so it’s somewhat crowded, but not too overbearing; enough that nobody else will pay any attention to them. They both order a burger and chips. She gets a beer and he winds up with a mojito.

She’s halfway to drunk thirty minutes later, stealing his chips even though she has a full plate of her own and giggling. She’s too adorable to berate. He doesn’t bother; he looks at her and smiles.

She rests her head against his upper arm. She’s so small; sometimes he’s more aware of it than others. She says, “I like this.”

He leans his cheek on his palm, still grinning. He feels dazed. “What?”

She meets his eyes. Her dimples are showing. “This. Being with you. I wish I had realized it sooner.”

He brushes a thumb across her bottom lip affectionately. “I think your timing was perfect.”

It’s a mark of how close they already were before that they don’t even have to talk about it; it’s who they were before and who they are now, and there’s no separation. It’s right. It’s the way it should be. There’s nothing more to it.

“Being with me, huh.” He wants to hear her say it.

She’s blushing. Her smile grows. “Yeah,” she answers. “Together. We’re together.”

He doesn’t reply; he just stares at her, content, happy – a feeling he always believed to be fleeting, but one that has quickly became a regular state of being around her. He’s heard you should never rely on another human being for happiness, but what else is there? People aren’t meant to be alone. He’s been alone. Being alone has never made him happy.

“What?” She says, misinterpreting his silence. “I’m forward.”

He laughs lightly. “Yeah,” he murmurs, touching his lips to her hair. “I like that about you.”

–

(But of course, being a pub so close to the student housing, they’re recognized – Martha, Rose, and her boyfriend are there, sitting near the back, still easily within line of sight. Martha’s staring but Rose is unconcerned, preoccupied.

Something’s changed, Martha says, studying them carefully.

Rose pretends to be interested. Really? She asks, scanning the menu. How so?

Just _look_ at them, Martha replies. _Look—_

As they all watch from afar, Clara’s small hands twine into his shirt, and her mouth meets John’s casually. Martha’s jaw drops.

Rose exhales. Wow, she says. Well. It was bound to happen _someday_.)

–

They walk back home through the fluttering snow, Clara’s fingers wrapped around John’s wrist. She tugs him to a halt, boots crunching against the slush.

“Kiss me,” she says easily, ice melting on her eyelashes. The novelty hasn’t worn off.

He needs this, but he fakes exasperation anyway. “ _Again?_ ” He sighs. She doesn’t buy it, though; she smiles, her nose crinkling.

He slips his arms around her tiny waist, dipping his head. It’s not clumsy or unpracticed: he’s been waiting for her his entire life. Everything he’s been through is suddenly forgiven – the pain, the loss, the anguish – because of her, because she is here now and she’s telling him to kiss her, and he was born for this.

She laughs (the sound reminds him of wind chimes, delicate and beautiful) and says, “Kiss me again.”

So he does, and he doesn’t stop.

–

(Nobody is waiting for them when they get home. They’re all learning to let these battles go. Let it be, let it be.)

**December**

The first proper reveal comes two mornings later, on the second of December, when Clara’s sitting bleary-eyed in the kitchen waiting for John to make her a cup of tea.

“I’m dying,” she says dramatically, arms across the counter and cheek pressed into the wood. “I can’t make it. Go on without me today. Do my coursework for me.”

“I do that anyway.” He’s not restraining a smile. He sets a mug in front of her. “Drink up. You’ll feel better.”

“It’s too early.”

“It’s twelve in the afternoon.”

“You’ll have to carry me.”

“Okay.” He turns around and bends slightly. “Hop on, quick as you like.”

She laughs, kicking him with one foot. “Get away from me. You’re an idiot. Come here.”

He spins, expression entirely baffled. She’s looking up at him, grinning. “Well, which is it?” He asks, bewildered. “Should I leave and come back later, as a compromise?”

She giggles, her hair falling over her eyes. She lifts her head, crooking a finger at him. “No,” she says. “Come here.”

She shifts on the stool, angling toward him. He steps forward and slides into place: one hand resting over her hip, the other clutching the countertop. Her palm cups his cheek, and she runs her thumb across the bone. She arches up to kiss him; he tastes like chamomile and honey, and there’s an eagerness to him: he’s finally realizing what it’s like to be alive.

Amy’s door opens silently – hers is the _only_ one that doesn’t creak, go figure – but she drops a stack of textbooks when she turns and sees them in the kitchen. They don’t spring apart. Clara peaks around John’s shoulder interestedly; John tilts his head, unashamed; Amy is absolutely floored.

“Congratulations,” she says dumbly, like she’s watching them receive an award.

Clara hides a grin behind her hand, and John laughs strangely. “Erm, thanks,” he says. “I think.”

“You’re welcome,” Amy answers on autopilot, still in a stupor. It’s something she never thought she’d actually _see,_ only know without concrete evidence—

She takes in the details without realizing it: Clara’s oversized shirt, the mark on John’s neck, Clara’s bent knees against John’s thighs; their intimacy screams at her, and for the first time she truly understands why nobody else ever stood a chance – with either of them.

“Anything else?” Clara prompts after Amy forgets to pick up her books for a solid ten seconds. She jolts, scrambling for them.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, and makes an almost mad dash for the front door.

John turns back to Clara with raised eyebrows the moment it slams. “Was it really that much of a shock?” He asks wonderingly, and she shrugs.

“It was to me,” she responds. “You’re much better in bed than I thought you’d be.”

He’s quick as ever. “Yeah, well, you bite more than I’d originally given you credit for.”

She bares her teeth menacingly at him and he shoves his hand into her face. “Don’t even think about it.”

She drools all over him instead and calls it a win-win.

–

(It’s not much of a change: she lives in his room, in his bed. He gives her the constellations to wear around her neck and tells her she is beautiful. When he falls asleep in her arms, all he can think about is how she’s become the sun; she keeps him warm. He finds the stars sewn in her skin, and the infinite expansion of the universe in her veins.

All of time and space, he says. You make me feel like it’s a possibility.)

–

A boy from one of Clara’s lit classes – she thinks his name is Sebastian, but isn’t sure, they’ve barely spoken – approaches her during lunch as John’s getting her a coffee, and it takes her about five minutes of forced, awkward conversation for her to understand that he’s trying to ask her out.

“Oh,” she says, surprised. “I’m actually – seeing someone.”

The boy looks caught off guard. “Who?”

Her gaze slips somewhere just behind his shoulder. She clears her throat. “Erm, _him._ ”

John carefully sets their coffees down, sliding Clara’s in front of her. He barely looks at the boy, oblivious. The lounge is always packed at this hour. “Careful,” John warns her, “it’s hot.”

She smiles gratefully. “Thanks.”

The boy, now feeling incredibly uncomfortable, steps back a bit. “Sorry,” he manages, avoiding her eyes.

She waves him off. “No harm done.”

He retreats, and John inclines an eyebrow, glancing back. “What was that about?”

“He was asking me on a date.”

John makes a face. She wonders if he’s the jealous type. “What did you say?” He asks, though his tone is merely curious.

“I said yes,” she answers plainly, and then rolls her eyes and laughs at the way his jaw drops in offense. “Don’t be thick. I said no, obviously. I told him I was with you.”

There’s something prideful about his smile – not in a possessive way, but in a genuine one, as if he just feels honestly lucky to be with her.

“I hope you’re telling people that for a long time,” he says in a rare display of vulnerability, unguarded.

The words give her an idea of a better future.

–

(We’re university students, she says. We’ve got out whole lives ahead of us, that’s the phrase, isn’t it? We’re not looking for true love.

She’s testing him. Her coffee is sitting in front of her, untouched. He pours three packets of sugar into it and stirs. She tries to keep her mouth steady.

Maybe not, he says, unperturbed. But maybe we’ve found it anyway.

The tips of his fingers brush the back of her hand. Her gaze darts down, and then back to his own. Have we? She asks.

He takes a sip of his coffee. We have all the time in the world, he says, and lowers his eyes with a smile. That’s a phrase, too.)

–

The second proper reveal – and last – occurs at an end-of-term party 309 is again hosting. Another boy from their room, Mickey Smith, goes around personally banging on peoples’ doors, inviting them over.

They all decide it’s a good idea, purely because it _is_ the end of term and exams are bearing down on them all – there’s no better reason to get smashed. They’re drunk in record time; Clara’s claimed an entire bottle of tequila to herself, and River’s shotgunning beers with Jack, as he’s the only one who can keep up with her – Amy’s drinking _whiskey_ tonight, to the immense displeasure of Rory.

It takes another five minutes and John and Clara are in the corner, laughing together, their heads dangerously close—

“Do you mind?” He whispers, his breath on her cheek. Even when he’s off his face he’s polite.

She smiles, shaking her head, and his arms wrap around her waist—

“It’s weird to watch, but it’s hard to look away,” Jack comments to River, staring at the way Clara’s mouth fits perfectly against John’s. “Maybe it’s because we’ve lived with them.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s weird. It’s entrancing.” He idly takes another sip of beer. “It’d be nice to have that.”

River glances at him interestedly. “Would it?”

“Sure. But with twenty people, not just one.”

She smiles genuinely and kisses him, just because – she sort of agrees, sometimes.

–

(Everybody knows now, John says, and there’s a lack of subtlety in his voice. Clara raises an eyebrow.

No more boys trying to wrangle dates with me, right? She hints, tone blatantly amused – she sees through him in seconds. He chuckles against her lips.

Right, he confirms, not bothering to hide it. Her fingers tangle in his hair.

So, maybe he _is_ the jealous type.)

–

John’s goal quickly evolves into not just passing his own exams, but getting Clara through _hers –_ more specifically, physics. They stay up until four a.m. studying for it, aided by ten cups of coffee apiece and piles of John’s notes. The thing is, Clara isn’t stupid – she understands, for the most part, the equations and problems and how to solve them – but there’s a reason she isn’t pursuing a maths degree.

“We can’t all be geniuses,” she says again, her head in his lap and his fingers running through her hair gently. She’s going to fall asleep, he can sense it. “I’ll just do the best I can and that’s that.”

“I’ll buy you a gallon of ice-cream afterward.”

“I’d rather you bought me a gallon of tequila, but that’s acceptable, I suppose.”

He smiles so tenderly it almost pains him. There are things he doesn’t know how to keep inside of him; they build until they burn, and he has no choice.

“If there was ever a reason,” he begins softly, carefully, “that they died and I didn’t – that reason is you.”

Her eyes open slowly, meeting his. She raises a hand to rest against his cheek, the way she’d comfort him if he were crying. He doesn’t know how to explain it. He’s never had anything so _good_ in his life before, or felt such an absence of loneliness; he turns his head and presses his lips against her palm.

So she says, “I love you, too.”

–

_Oh._

–

(I love you, he echoes, finally understanding. I love you. I can’t think of a time when I haven’t loved you.)

–

He finishes the test before her, and waits outside, slumped against the wall. He’s scrolling through the pictures on his phone and chuckling to himself; there’s an entire album of her fast asleep, making hideous facial expressions.

She slams into his side out of nowhere, which probably would’ve hurt if she wasn’t so short. “I’m finished,” she says jubilantly. “I passed, I think. It wasn’t bad.”

He shows her his screen – it’s a photo of her half-drooling onto his pillow. “I’m thinking about a congratulatory cake. You think they’d print this picture of your face on it?”

She punches him in the arm. “I liked you better before you developed a sense of a humour. I’m deleting those.”

Okay, he probably deserved that. “No you’re not,” he says sternly, holding the phone above his head. “They’re beautiful.”

She rolls her eyes. “Shut up. Let’s go. I still need to pack.”

“What time is your dad picking us up?”

“Half past three.”

“Mm.” He begins making a mental checklist. “I think I’ve got everything, actually. Well – except for that jumper you so politely stole from my closet this morning.” He glances down at her, grinning. “It’s giant on you, by the way.”

She plucks at it to make a point. “At least it’s warm.”

“Well, I’m not, so if we could move this along—”

She sighs – _Oh, John,_ he hears her murmur – before huddling closer to him as they walk. He swings an arm around her shoulders. She takes his hand, linking their fingers together. The way she says his name makes him feel like he’s on fire.

 _Burning_. He can’t think of a better way to go.

–

Dave arrives right on time, and Clara almost regrets inviting John to stay for the holidays – it takes about three minutes for them to start cracking jokes at her expense.

“You’ve seen the way she packs, right, John?” Dave says, lifting her bag into the car.

“I wouldn’t necessarily call it _packing,_ ” he replies. “She came home and dumped half her clothes in her suitcase without bothering to organize or fold them. Took her five minutes.”

“That’s enough,” Clara interrupts, turning around from the passenger’s seat and smacking John’s knee. “Does the topic of conversation always have to be _me?_ ”

Dave looks at her oddly. “Well, of course, sweetheart. You’re our common interest.”

“It’s an expression of love,” John adds, entirely unhelpful.

Clara’s going to start _expressing her love_ by hitting them both upside the head.

–

By the time they make it home, John’s actually exhausted. “Is there a room I can drop my bag?” He asks politely, the strap digging into his shoulder.

Clara inclines her head, tugging his sleeve. “My room’s upstairs.”

He begins to blush horribly. “Well, yes, but – I’m not – I mean, I can’t just – do _I_ get a room, or—?”

She and Dave both begin to laugh. “I forget,” she says, grinning at him, “you _are_ rather new at this, aren’t you?”

John looks between them, appropriately bewildered. “Sorry, have I missed something?”

“It’s fine, John,” Dave says sincerely. “You can stay in Clara’s room. She knows the rules.”

He smiles, taken aback. “Well, thanks,” he replies, still slightly thrown. “It’s nice – that you trust her.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Why? Do you _not_?”

John grins. “I definitely don’t.”

“Shut up, I’m very trustworthy.” She backhands his arm. “Come on. Up the stairs.”

“Yes, dear.”

–

They’re in bed a few hours later and he’s lying on his stomach with his face buried in the crook of her neck; her fingertips are gliding up and down his back soothingly, drawing patterns. She can feel his ribs move against her stomach when he breathes in. He’s in a pair of boxer briefs and she’s wearing one of his NASA shirts and the question is floating over him.

“So, really.” He says, and waits. “Why am I allowed to stay in your room? I don’t – I mean, it’s unusual, right? Most parents don’t really – encourage their daughters to sleep with their boyfriends, do they?”

His word choice is so poor and stumbling that she has to suppress her instinct to laugh; the thought crosses her mind that his own parents might have never had a rule about it. “We’re both adults,” she points out, and nothing else.

He shifts onto his elbow, other arm still draped over her body. “Really.”

She hums. When she exhales, the air tastes stale. “It’s because of my mum, I think. He – we still miss her. Every day. I think – I think he just believes people should be together, while they can.”

His gaze darts across her face, unraveling her. They carry a graveyard between them, bones and tombstones and the art of being alone. Her hand reaches up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing underneath his eye. He turns his head and presses his lip against the center of her palm. His shirt is so big on her. He splays his fingers over her hip, curling around it. She’s toying with his hair, now, watching him.

He moves his hand up and down her side, slowly. She’s so small – she’s strong, too, yes; but she’s small and he’s afraid she’ll disappear when he looks away, like the rest of them, like everybody else, fading until she becomes a shadow under a streetlamp on a city corner or a reflection in a snowy windowpane that he sees for a split second and then it is gone, and he—

He wouldn’t know what to do without her. It’s the most terrifying thought he’s ever had.

He shifts his body over hers; he settles his weight carefully, and her arms automatically envelop him. They’re too familiar for people who have only known each other four and a half months. He doesn’t remember what his life was like before he started touching her.

“Tell me something about space,” she murmurs, like she’ll never want anything else.

He slips his hand underneath her shirt, feeling the dent of her skin between her hip and her ribs, and up to the underside of her breast; it’s a soothing motion rather than sexual. He likes to have the proof that she exists.

“Nothing up there compares to you,” he says, and when he kisses her even the stars spin around to get a better look.

–

On Christmas Eve, John’s sprawled casually across the couch and Dave’s in the recliner, and they’re watching _The Grinch –_ which had been a favourite of Clara’s as a child, and so she’d insisted upon it.

She leaves about twenty minutes in to take a shower, and Dave jumps to take advantage of her absence.

“Hey, John,” he half-whispers from across the room, “I think she likes you.”

“You think?” John mock-whispers back, trying to keep a straight face. “It’s so hard to tell sometimes.”

“Yeah, her facial expressions don’t match her emotions. It’s a birth defect.”

John snorts, laughing. Clara pokes her head in the room, holding a handful of towels. “Wow, very clever,” she says sarcastically. “Good one.”

They both smile at her, and she traipses away again. John stares at the space where she’d just been, clearly in thought. His expression falls blank.

Dave takes notice. “Alright, John? Something on your mind?”

He turns slightly red, but doesn’t shy away. “I’m not quite sure I know how – to communicate it,” he says, and scratches his head. “I worry, sometimes.”

“About?”

“Sometimes I feel like,” he responds slowly, carefully, “I’m going to be…too much. As if I’ll get too heavy for her, and she won’t be able to carry the weight. I don’t want to become a burden.”

“You think she can’t handle it?” Dave asks. He gets it. It’s a lot to hold on a daily basis – everybody, he thinks, needs somebody.

John takes a minute. “It’s not that,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I feel like it’s wrong to depend so fully on another person, but it doesn’t actually _feel_ wrong. She’s my best friend.”

“I know Clara,” Dave says firmly. “And I’ve seen you together. You complete each other.” He’s clearly more observant than he lets on. “Hear me out: I hate the notion of people being whole on their own. That’s bullshit. You’re a whole person, sure – the heart, the brain, the lungs, the body – right, technically, you’re a complete, whole person. But you lose things, growing up. Parts you’ve given to the _wrong_ people. Parts that were taken from you. What we need isn’t this idea that we can be perfectly happy in a fucking cave in the middle of the mountains by ourselves – what we need is the idea that you can be cracked, hurt, torn apart, and there is still someone whose cracks mirror yours. Whose body is torn in the only places yours isn’t. People make each other whole. Nobody wants to be alone.”

John sits in stunned silence for a moment. “I’ve never thought of it like that.”

“You, and I, and Clara,” he says, “we’ve been alone. She understands, too. She has her own burdens. They’re just compatible with yours.”

The Grinch’s heart grows three sizes in the background, but neither of them are paying much attention anymore.

–

Dave goes to sleep soon after Clara gets back, and bids them both goodnight. She turns to John immediately, her eyes dark and boring into his own.

“Doctor,” she says, and he can feel the intensity of whatever she’s about to tell him on the tip of her tongue. “Doctor.”

“What?” He answers, uncertain.

She rests a palm against his cheek. His fingers wrap tenderly around her wrist, almost on instinct. Her voice is soft, but firm; there’s a hurricane inside of her.

“You’re not a burden,” she tells him, and the words are steady in her throat. “Okay? You’re not a burden _._ ”

–

(They exchange presents lazily the next morning. John cooks them all breakfast and serves tea. It’s snowed overnight and they decide to walk through the park; it’s a nice thought until Clara gives them the challenge of making a snowman, which quickly becomes John dumping snow on her head.

It takes them an hour, but they manage it—

He looks sort of evil, doesn’t he? Clara observes candidly.

Menacing little bloke, John says, studying it.

So they destroy it, just to be on the safe side.)

–

She kisses him once, standing in the snow, clothes drenched and shivering; I love you, she says, smiling.

Here are the facts: he has known her for four months, but he has loved her forever. He tells her about the theory of the multiverse, murmuring, There are an infinite number of universes in which we are standing here together and I am telling you I love you, but in one of those we grew up together, and in another we met in this park, maybe I knew immediately, I saw you and I knew – it sounds mad, and it sounds impossible, but by this logic, throughout all of time and space, you have been there and I have loved you forever. Even if it hasn’t been in this one, it’s _somewhere._

When she finally speaks, she says, That’s what I want. You to live forever.

–

It’s December and he’ll remember it as the month her laugh took over his life; he’ll remember the taste of snow melting in her mouth and her eyelashes catching ice like crystals, making her eyes glitter with reflections of stars and Christmas lights. It’s December and her pulse makes him glad that he’s alive.


	2. up and up we keep on climbing

**January**

They arrive back to the dorms a few days before classes begin again, teeth chattering and luggage heavier than it was on the way home, due to the haul of Christmas; Clara’s acquired several new articles of clothing, including three pairs of boots and seven jumpers.

(Hopefully this means you’ll stop stealing mine, John says with a grin, and she shrugs passively.

For seven days, maybe, she replies, and the light in her eye sparks into a glint.)

Jack’s the only person there; he’s sitting in the kitchen drinking tea, watching something on his laptop. He jerks out his earphones when they open the door, waving lazily.

“Hello, Jack,” Clara greets, struggling to get her suitcase through the door. John’s fishing in his pockets for his room key, but smiles at him. “How was your holiday?”

Jack winks. “Better than ever,” he answers enthusiastically. “You would not _believe_ what I found under my tree this year—”

“Probably not,” Clara agrees, leaning against John’s back as he slips his key in the lock. John snorts.

His door clicks and he shoves it ajar, Clara pouring in the room after him. She dumps her luggage on his floor and begins wrestling with the scarf around her neck, grumbling.

John’s eyebrows raise in mock surprise. “Oh, are you moving in?” He asks airily, gesturing at her spilled bags. “You should’ve warned me, I would’ve tidied up a bit.”

She’s laughing. “Shut up,” she says, successfully removing her scarf and throwing it at him. “I already have a _drawer._ ”

“Yeah, well, considering you live _so far away_ and everything—”

Her mouth is suddenly covering his, still in a grin, fingers wrapped around his jacket.

“Sometimes I wonder,” she murmurs against his lips, “why I like you.”

His palms cup her cheeks as he kisses her back. “Sometimes,” he whispers, “I wonder the same thing.”

–

(They rejoin Jack in the kitchen soon after, sitting on the barstools across from him. He’s already made them tea; the sugar rests in front of them, and there are pastries laid out on the table. John drops two cubes into Clara’s mug automatically. She stirs. John spreads jam on his roll. Jack grins.

I knew you were returning today, so I bought breakfast, he says. Have a nice holiday?

John nods. Christmas was fantastic, and New Year’s was—

Ooh, New Year’s was lovely, Clara interrupts fondly. I took him to dinner, and then to a nice local pub – they did a proper countdown, and we had champagne—

You took _him_ to dinner? Jack prods, and Clara laughs.

She did, John confirms, sipping his tea and smiling.

Jack beams. Cheers to that, he says, tapping their mugs together.)

–

“I’m glad,” Jack says quietly to John later, after Clara’s gone to take a shower, “that you have her, you know? It’s good. It’s great.”

It’s one of the most genuine things Jack’s ever said to him, and it takes John a moment to comprehend it. Heavy clouds glare at them through the kitchen window. John’s cup warms his hands. He looks down and smiles.

“So am I,” he says, an openness forming between them.

Jack pats his shoulder. “Not that we would’ve let you spend the holidays alone, and God knows I would’ve _loved_ to kiss you on New Year’s, but this way you’re getting laid and enjoying it, at least.”

John snorts into his tea and chokes, laughing; Clara pokes her head out of her room and says dangerously, “ _What_ was that?”

“Nothing, dear, nothing,” Jack replies, slapping John on the back.

Clara rolls her eyes. “Oh, the pair of you,” she says, and leaves them to the early afternoon.

–

Amy, Rory, and River all return two days later, knocking loudly around the hallway at nine in the morning and snickering. Clara starts awake the moment Amy starts banging on Jack’s door, nearly cracking her head against John’s chin.

“Jack!” She hears Amy yelling. “No _tea_ prepared for your best friends and flatmates?”

“Friends, flatmates, sometimes lovers—” River chimes in, voice deep and sultry.

“No _scones_?” Amy continues. “No jam and clotted cream?”

Jack swings the door open. “Which one of them told you?”

They’re all laughing; footsteps approach John’s room. Clara glances up at John, who’s grimacing in response to what’s about to come; he throws an arm over his eyes.

Jack sounds like he’s slammed his entire body weight into their door. “ _Who did it?!_ ” He shouts. “Who betrayed me? I do _one_ act of decency and this is how you repay me—”

Clara turns and shoves John off the bed. “Answer it, quickly, before he breaks the damn thing down,” she says, trying hard not to laugh at him half-sprawled on the floor. He opens and closes his mouth in offense, but doesn’t manage to get any of the words out; he settles for glaring at her instead and rising to answer the door.

“It was Clara,” John informs the crowd, immediately throwing her under the bus. “She’s the culprit, she texted Amy about what a _sweetheart_ you were—”

Jack steps into the room. “ _Well_ then,” he replies, mockingly menacing, “she’ll have to be _punished,_ won’t she? I only managed _eight_ hours of beauty sleep, thanks to you; not that it particularly makes a difference, I’m always handsome, but it doesn’t hurt—”

Clara raises her hands in surrender, giggling as he approaches. John’s behind him, smirking.

“Into the hallway with her,” John announces. “Just bundle her up and toss her out. I don’t want her anymore.”

Jack grins and scoops her up as she struggles, unable to free herself from the blankets. He throws her over his shoulder; she doesn’t even bother fighting him, caught up in a fit of laughter. She’s not even mad. Amy’s cheering, River’s snickering, and Rory looks like he’s afraid Clara’ll kill him if he laughs at her as well. He’s a little _too_ serious, she thinks, as John opens the front door and Jack drops her in the hallway, locking her out.

She bangs on the door with her fists, still in hysterics. “Let me in!” She screams, not caring if she disturbs the whole floor. “John! Jack!”

“Not a chance,” Jack’s voice calls.

She pouts, and uses the one weapon she knows will get her what she wants. “ _Doctor,_ ” she shouts through the wood, and that’s all.

John opens the door after a minute of silence, smiling guiltily. He rolls his eyes at her, but picks her up again – she’s still on the floor in his sheets. “It’s like blackmail,” he says, pretending to be annoyed.

“Oh, is that why you’re dating her?” Jack says, overhearing. “She’s _blackmailing_ you, is she?”

River smirks. “What’s she have on you?” She pauses, lips parting slightly in fake realization. “ _Inappropriate_ photographs, perhaps?”

Clara snorts. “Yeah, that must be it,” she replies, head against his collarbone; he’s still carrying her. “I can’t think of any other reason why he’d date me.”

“I can,” River says, innuendo evident. Amy lets out a high-pitched giggle, caught off-guard.

John ignores it. “So can I,” he whispers into her hair while the rest of them are distracted, and, _well,_ there’s no way she can be mad at him after _that_ line.

–

She and John don’t share a module this term ( _Good,_ he says, I don’t think I could’ve managed passing you through yet _another_ physics course, and Clara slaps his arm) but their schedules are so oddly similar that they wind up being in class at the same times, meaning they take turns getting each other up in the morning and walk to and from university together. Sometimes he gets out early and waits outside her lecture hall with a cup of coffee; she always smiles appreciatively when he does this, kissing him on the cheek.

Rose – who shares the same lecture as her; it’s feminism and literature in the early nineteenth century – always rolls her eyes, amused, and asks, “How do I get _my_ boyfriend to do that?”

Clara winks and continues their now-running joke. “Blackmail him.”

Rose laughs. “I might start,” she says, and waves them off.

They head out the doors into the frigid air; the grass surrounding the path home is icy. She shivers noticeably. John glances down at her and frowns. He puts a hand on her shoulder and halts her, stepping in front of her. She looks at him curiously.

He’s tutting under his breath, fingers at the bottom of her coat. “You’re like a child,” he says, buttoning it up for her. “Can’t even keep yourself warm.”

“It’s not like I was about to _freeze_ to death, and the walk’s not far,” she says, but smiles nonetheless. “You worry.”

“For good reason,” he replies automatically, and pauses, grinning a second too late. “If you catch a cold, _who’s_ going to have to deal with you? Me. I am.”

Her pulse flickers. There are things she heals and there are things she hurts; she’s not sure where existing falls in that spectrum. Love and loss. The two have always gone hand-in-hand for him.

Her eyes dart between his. He’s trying not to look at her, but he can’t avoid it. He gives her a half-smile, doing up the last button. The expression on his face is gentle.

“I love you,” she says, because she can’t not.

He places a palm against her cheek, thumb brushing underneath her eye.

“Yeah,” he replies, his mouth curled, “I think you’re alright, too.”

She understands; he has enough to give away. Her fingers link through his and she shoves their hands into his overcoat pocket. She tugs him forward, smiling to herself. She knows. She doesn’t need a translation.

–

(Come on, she says, walking down the path again. Let’s get you inside before your heart ices over completely.

He laughs. I’ll get another one, he answers. I can have two.

She scrunches her nose; quick visions of light and pounding bass make an appearance in her head, and then they are gone. Haven’t we had this conversation before? She asks, uncertain.

He shrugs. Probably, he says. You could use a second brain.

Yeah? Why, do you have a few extras?

Twenty-seven. I have twenty-seven brains.

She snorts loudly. Maybe I _should_ leave you out here to freeze, she says, but he unravels their fingers and wraps both arms around her waist, holding her close, and she can’t think of a place she’d want to go without him, anyway.)

–

On the fifteenth, Clara decides to scrub the couch down – there’s a sort of living area off to the left of the kitchen bar that none of them use due to Amy having spilled an entire bottle of whiskey on it first term; Jack discovered the hard way how potent the stain was when he sat on it a week later and all of his clothes ended up smelling of Peaty Creag.

John sits cross-legged on the floor next to the telly, watching her with his nose scrunched; the scent isn’t particularly welcoming. “You’re a brave woman.”

“We _live_ here,” she replies, inspecting the cushions. “I’d like to be able to take advantage of it, is all.”

John leans his chin against the back of his hand. “I think our room’s just fine. We have Netflix. And a bed.”

She rolls her eyes and smiles unwilling. “ _Our_ room, huh?” She answers dryly, glancing back to catch his blush.

He shrugs her off, but his ears burn. “You’re the one who moved in.”

She decides to let it go; he’s right, but she’ll never tell him that. “Jack’s having a party here next weekend,” she says instead. “He invited that club he’s in – U.N.I.T.? I figured it’d be nice if the place didn’t smell like Scotland.”

John snickers. “I go to a meeting, here and there,” he says, expression bemused. “Still don’t know what it is they actually do. I think it has something to do with conspiracy theories.”

“I thought it was a gay-straight alliance.”

Rory peeks his head around the corner.

“Don’t let Amy catch you insulting _The Homeland,_ ” he says, referring to Clara’s earlier remark. “She nearly took off my head for insinuating that the Loch Ness Monster wasn’t real.”

Clara slaps a rag at him. “She’s ill, be nice to her.”

“I am. This was two weeks ago.”

Clara laughs, but otherwise has nothing to add. “Well.”

Rory gestures. “Exactly.”

“How’s she feeling?” John asks. “Any better?”

“She’s stopped vomiting, at least,” Rory says. “I need to pop out to Tesco’s for a bit – can you check in on her?”

Clara looks at John pointedly, and then at the sofa she’s midway through cleaning. He stands, dusting off his flannel pajama bottoms, and rubs her back as he walks by.

“I’ll make her a cup of tea,” he says. “English Breakfast alright?”

“Yeah,” Rory responds, already heading towards the door. “Milk, no sugar. Thanks!”

The door slams. John puts the kettle on, glancing over the bar at his girlfriend. “Tea, dear?”

“Better not,” she says, aggressively scrubbing again. “It’ll get contaminated. Give me another twenty minutes – make it then.”

He hums, pouring the hot water into one of Amy’s _Peter Pan_ mugs. Clara’s panting slightly, hair stuck to her face from the effort. He stirs Amy’s tea idly and admires the domesticity of it all, the closeness; he can’t give it a name. It’s something like _home._

“What if I catch what she’s got?” He says. “Will _you_ take care of me?”

Clara smiles and meets his gaze. “Absolutely _not_ ,” she replies, eyes sparkling. “ _You’re_ the Doctor, aren’t you?”

He grins. He can hear the undertone in her voice; _obviously, you idiot –_ her mouth fades into a soft curl, more akin to fondness than sarcasm. He picks up the mug, walking to Amy’s room. “If I get sick,” he tells her over his shoulder, “you still have to kiss me.”

“But then _I’ll_ get sick, too!” She calls back.

He shrugs. “Two is better than one.”

She sighs audibly behind him. He counts it as a victory.

–

(Ugh, God, the two of you, Amy says upon his arrival to her room. I can hear you bickering back and forth from here. It’s like some cheesy romantic comedy.

John grins. Sorry, he says, but he isn’t really. I’ve made tea for you.

He sets it on the table beside her bed. She smiles appreciatively. Thanks.

He plops down in the chair Rory’d been previously sitting in and asks, How are you feeling?

She shrugs. A little better, she replies, and doesn’t elaborate.

John’s not sure where to go from here; he takes a stab in the dark. You’ve got Rory, he says. I bet that helps.

Amy smiles genuinely – he can spot the difference right away – but it dims after a brief moment.

I feel bad sometimes, she says slowly.

He raises an eyebrow. Why?

She takes the mug from off her bedside table and holds it between her hands. Because, she replies. I wasn’t as good to him in the beginning as I should have been.

You didn’t know how much he was going to mean to you, John says, crossing his arms. He forgave you.

Yeah, she answers distractedly, staring off into the distance. Still. It messed him up a bit, didn’t it? He’s – insecure, sometimes.

I don’t think that’s your fault, John replies. I think that’s just…human.

There’s a lull. Amy’s mouth turns up at the edges. You and Clara, she says, abruptly changing the subject. She’s your best friend, isn’t she?

He smiles. Yes.

Are _you_ ever insecure?

He pauses. No, he allows, But I’m not _human._

Amy laughs and lets it go; he’s lying, obviously, but there are things he has trouble admitting to himself, let alone everyone else, and—)

–

Clara’s wiping it dry by the time he leaves Amy’s room. “So?” She says, giving the sofa a final polish. “She alright?”

“She’s alright,” he responds. He puts the empty mug on the counter, resting on his elbow, staring at her. “She asked if I was insecure. About you.”

Clara sits up straighter. “And?” She leans her chin on the back of her wrist. “What did you say?”

His nerves get the best of him; insects in his intestines, whatever the phrase – he’s drawing back. “I said, ‘Of course I am. Have you seen her? And I have to take _that_ out in public.’ Something along those lines.”

Clara snorts with laughter; he thinks he can hear Amy chuckling in her room, too, but he’s not certain. Clara gives him a _look;_ amused, but still curious.“What did you _really_ say?”

It’s better this time. “That you were my best friend,” he confesses easily, keeping his voice light.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, good, because you’re my best friend, too.”

The silence occurs naturally, content and contemplative; sunlight paints the curve of Clara’s spine. He watches her. He’ll never get tired of watching her. He can feel the beat of his heart when she catches his eye.

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” he muses aloud, “how things work out like that.”

Clara smiles and doesn’t respond.

–

(Now come here, she demands, waving to him. Come here and smell this couch. It’s unbelievable.

He obliges, sinking onto his knees beside her. Her hand comes around the back of his neck as she tries to forcibly bury his head in the cushions; he’s caught so off-guard that she actually manages to do it. He inhales.

Wow, he says, stunned. It smells like honeysuckle.

She raises her hand. Do I get a high-five, or what?

He slaps his palm against hers. Clara Oswald, he announces, the impossible girl, capable of cleaning even the most horridly stained sofas.)

–

The month comes to a close with them eating pizza in bed, watching _Casablanca._ John makes a face and peels a green pepper off of one of his slices. “Ugh.”

Clara disregards him. “Says you,” she snipes back. “You like _pineapple._ ”

“It’s delicious.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“ _You’re_ disgusting.”

She raises her eyebrows, smiling like something extremely clever is about to come out of her mouth. “Yeah, well, _you’re_ delicious,” she teases, giggling into the palm he shoves over her jaw.

“Behave,” he commands sternly, but can’t resist: he moves his hand and kisses her once. “It’s a long movie.”

She hums, leaning sideways into his lap. “I didn’t know you were such a fan of the classics.”

“I didn’t know _you_ were.”

“Humphrey Bogart is a dream. What a bloke, right?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, he’s lovely.”

She turns her attention back to the screen, sighing. John runs his fingers through her hair, unconsciously untangling the knots. She stretches an arm and scratches her nails against the back of his scalp without paying much attention; the shirt of his she’s wearing rises above her thigh, revealing her knickers. His hand skims down her body, rubbing her leg. She’s attractive, yes, but it’s more than that – he likes that they can be this comfortable around one another without any sort of expectation.

_Play it once, Sam, for old times’ sake._

Someone knocks on their door. Clara glances at him curiously and presses the spacebar, pausing it.

“John?” A voice calls. It’s Jack. “Martha’s here for you.”

He smacks himself in the face. “I forgot,” he tells Clara. “She wanted to borrow some notes.” He pushes at her back gently, waiting for her to roll off of him. “Shove up a little bit.”

She whines and shifts onto her stomach – he does a double-take when he stands, not impervious to the view. She catches him staring and grins.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t answer it all the way.”

She stares blankly. “Why not?”

“You’re not wearing trousers!” He says, aghast, reaching for the doorknob.

She snorts loudly. “Right,” she says dryly. She’s pretty sure the fact that they have sex isn’t a secret. “Like they don’t already _know_ we sleep together—”

He points a finger at her. “Shut up,” he says, and opens the door with a blush. “Hello, Martha. Sorry about that. Clara’s being obscene.”

A pillow hits him in the back of the head. Jack laughs. “Good throw,” he calls to Clara. Martha looks rather caught off-guard, but ultimately amused by the two of them.

“Thanks, Jack,” she shouts back. John waves them off.

“Which notes do you need?” He asks kindly.

She smiles appreciatively. “The ones from Tuesday,” she replies. “I was out ill.”

“Yeah, it’s been going around,” John says sympathetically. “Amy had it a week or two ago. Hang on.”

He retreats back into the room, leaving the door ajar. He glances at Clara, still lying on his bed, looking tantalizing – he’s suddenly strangely bothered by the fact that they have company, regardless of how brief.

“See something you like?” She flirts, her head in her arms.

He’s quick. “Yes,” he quips, rifling through his papers. “The last slice of that pizza.”

She picks it up immediately and rips off half of it with her teeth. “Too bad, bitch!” She shouts through a mouthful, and he has to lean against his desk to gather control of himself again – he’s laughing too hard.

Martha turns to Jack in the hallway and says lowly, “Are they _always_ like this?”

Jack grins widely. “Every day,” he confirms. “Don’t you just hate people in love?”

She doesn’t know whether to take him seriously or not, and so says nothing; John reappears at the door. “Here you are,” he says, handing her a folded notebook. “The pages are numbered; if you need me to define anything, just send me a text and I’ll help you out.”

“Thank you,” she says gratefully. “You’re a lifesaver, John, really.”

“A lifesaver?” Clara calls from inside. “Sort of like a… _Doctor_?”

John tries desperately not to laugh again, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Martha doesn’t understand; Jack’s heard it enough times to realize it’s an inside joke, and shrugs when she looks at him bemusedly.

“Anyway,” Martha says, smiling, “thanks. I’ll text if I’ve got any questions. Have a good evening.”

John echoes the greeting – Clara does, too – and he shuts his door, turning back to her.

“You’re insufferable,” he tells her fondly, crawling back onto the bed, moving the now-empty pizza box out of the way. She rolls onto her back, playing the film again.

“You adore me,” she says, shutting her eyes. “I’ve got a stomachache.”

He doesn’t bother teasing her about the pizza. He lifts the bottom of her shirt up to her ribcage, leaning over to kiss her navel. He gives it a moment, waiting; she shifts her leg and smiles slightly. He kisses her again, dragging his lips higher. Her lungs expand against her bones as her breath catches in her throat. His hands palm her sides, slipping her shirt up, and up, and—

She complies, and it lands on the floor next to them; she hooks her fingers around his collar, pulling his lips to hers.

“Feel better?” He exhales into her mouth, and her nails tap against his back.

“Getting there,” she says, spine arching into him. His hips press against hers and her lips part, curling at the corners. She contests, “Oh, I don’t think so.”

She pushes him up and onto his back, hovering over him on her knees. She straddles his waist and he laughs, her hipbones digging into his palms.

“You’re the boss,” he says, and her answering smirk drives him wild.

–

(Her hair sticks to her neck, her shoulders. The room smells close: the air is heavy with urgency. John’s mouth is hot and his tongue sweeps across her collarbone, teeth scraping against the curve of her neck. Her nails dig into his sides rough enough to leave marks. She gasps into his hair; the movie plays on.

A while later, she’s lying next to him, sheets pooling around her hips. Her arms are above her head and her eyes are closed. He’s running his fingers up and down her body gently. She turns her head towards him, small smile on her lips, eyelids still shut.

That feels nice, she says.

He thinks she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen; the most beautiful thing that could ever _be_ seen, by anyone, and here he is, lucky enough to witness it, to touch her, to kiss her—

She opens her eyes. What is it? She murmurs.

He thinks about the space between his heart and his lungs, and the dimples in her back, and home between the blood rushing in her veins. He thinks about the emptiness he used to feel and how he doesn’t feel it anymore; how it’s been replaced by seven good days in a row, blankets with the scent of chocolate and lavender, heat-seeking lips and hands and legs. The sound of the film filters through his brain; he recognizes where they are in it and his mouth curls.

Here’s lookin’ at you, kid, he says, and her smile is the best life lesson he’s ever learned.)

**February**

Rose suggests to Clara during an open discussion in lecture that they should double-date; _sort of a pre-Valentine’s Day_ , she says, _it’ll be fun_. Clara agrees – she’s quickly growing to like Rose; they often partner up for group work and end up talking about their lives instead, including their eerily similar boyfriends, who are both pursuing the same degree. They plan for that Friday night at eight, and then they’re dismissed; John’s waiting outside the door.

“Evening, Rose,” he says, smiling at her, and she watches the casual intimacy that occurs when he bends to kiss Clara briefly and his arm wraps around her waist; Clara’s hands rest on his arm. It takes all of two seconds. He meets Rose’s gaze again. “How was your lecture?”

“Eventful,” Rose replies ominously, and John furrows an eyebrow.

Clara laughs. “Come on,” she says, tugging at his wrist. “I’ll tell you about it on the way home.”

“See you soon,” Rose says nicely, taking a few steps back. “I’d walk with you, but I’ve got to stop by Tesco’s.” She nods behind her.

“See you,” Clara echoes, smiling, and John inclines his head, already heading for the door. He holds it open for her on their way out, letting his outstretched arm drop across her shoulders. Her fingers tangle with his.

“So, what was so _eventful_ about your lecture?” He asks, pulling his coat around him with his other hand. It’s a chilly evening; the dark sky looms with the threat of snow.

“Women. Revolution. Power,” Clara says with a straight face. “Overthrowing the patriarchy.” John makes an indistinguishable noise in his throat, somewhere between a reluctant laugh and a sigh. She grins. “No, Rose and I decided we’re all going out together. Her and Ten, you and I.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That could be fun,” he allows. “He’s in two of my modules. Almost as clever as I am.”

She rolls her eyes. “When did you get _such_ an ego?”

It doesn’t faze him. “When you decided you liked me.”

God _damn._ She’s got to stop giving him openings like this.

–

Friday rolls around, and Clara’s getting ready in her own room for a change; she leaves the door cracked. John comes knocking just after she’s taken a shower, asking about attire.

“Where are we going?” He asks, playfully tugging at the towel she’s wearing. “Should I look as indecent as you do?”

She rolls her eyes, swatting him away with her hairbrush. “Shut up,” she says, grinning. “No, you’re fine the way you are. Put on a nice bowtie.”

“Way ahead of you.” He pulls two out of his pocket, offering her the choice. “Which one?”

She’s still amazed someone can own as many of the same accessory that he does. “Grey.”

He quickly slips it around his collar, tying it without looking. She straightens it for him, smile affectionate. He says, “Well, _you_ look great. Don’t have to change a thing.”

She laughs, pushing on chest with a palm. “Down, boy.”

He sprawls back against her bed, hands behind his head, ankles crossed. He’s not wearing his coat, and he sleeves are rolled up; his hair is swept over, off to the side. He’s sort of – _disheveled_ , and it’s oddly sexy to her. She’s never pretended to be immune.

She moves back to the bathroom, drying her hair. She lets her towel drop, reaching for her bra and underwear, both black; she walks into her bedroom clad only in that, opening her wardrobe. She can feel him staring.

“That’s an even _better_ look,” he says, his voice low. “Come here.”

It sends a shiver through her spinal cord. She doesn’t normally oblige him like this, but – there’s something lurking in his tone; it’s dangerous, magnetic, undeniable. She turns, meeting his gaze. He’s watching her intensely.

He lifts a hand slowly and crooks a finger, beckoning her with a smile like the devil.

He doesn’t move as she approaches. She leans over him, palms against the side of the bed. He only stares with that same focused, dark expression – it’s endlessly attractive. She’s waiting to see who breaks first. Her lips are red. His gaze drops to the curve of her breasts, and then back to her eyes.

He raises an arm and ghosts his fingers across her cheek and to her jaw; she exhales, her eyelids fluttering. He wraps a strand of her hair between his index and thumb, coaxing her down, and then—

His mouth meets hers, tongue slipping across her bottom lip, and he’s kissing her like he can’t be deep enough inside of her, like he’d rather be every other pound of her pulse, like his favourite work of art is the spark of neurons firing in her brain. She realizes that they’re seconds away from stepping out of control, and she shifts her lips across the side of his face, nipping at his ear.

“We’ll be late,” she murmurs, sounding husky, and takes a step out of his grasp.

He falls back against her pillows, pouting; the dangerous glint is gone from his eye. He holds up his hands. “Okay,” he replies. “I respect your boundaries.”

She giggles accidentally; sometimes the things he says are so contextually strange that she doesn’t know how to respond. “Believe me,” she says, shifting her attention back to her clothes, “if we had it my way, we’d be pushing this date back an hour or so.”

He grins. “What a shame.”

“Indeed.”

“Now, put something on to ensure I don’t forget my manners again.”

She snickers. “You talk like such an old man.”

“Maybe I am.”

She doesn’t have a retort for that one.

–

(She’s ready twenty minutes later, fully dressed, minimal makeup on. She stands in front of him and spreads her arms jokingly. Well? She asks, grinning; I know it’s more clothing than _you’d_ have liked, but do I pass the test?

He smiles at her, bending to press his lips against her forehead. He thinks she looks stunning, hair curled, heels on, eyes dark and alluring; I don’t think you know how to make mistakes, he wants to tell her, Even the way you walk is a masterpiece; instead, he says—

You’ll do.)

–

They meet Rose and Ten outside their building, standing on the snowy path. They’re laughing together as Clara and John approach; Clara thinks she hears something that sounds distinctly like _werewolves._ Ten catches sight of them and waves; Rose follows suit.

“Hello!” Clara greets. “Are we late?”

“Nah, you’re right on time,” Ten says, taking Clara’s hand and kissing it. “Pleasure to see you again, Clara.”

She laughs, and sneaks a peek at John; he isn’t outwardly bothered by it, grinning.

“I’d kiss your hand, Rose,” he starts, “but Clara’s a raging jealous monster, so better not risk it.”

She smacks him, rolling her eyes; Rose laughs. “Oh, it’s going to be _that_ kind of evening, is it,” Clara says sarcastically. “Lovely.”

“Shall we?” Ten prods, extending his arm to Rose.

They head off down the road; it’s not big enough for the four of them to walk comfortably side-by-side, and so it ends up with the girls in the front, John and Ten in the back. Rose and Clara picked the restaurant – it’s a little nicer, and a little further in town; the boys are already calculating ways to split the bill.

“Does Rose like to have a drink with dinner?” John asks, already feeling like he’s just going to charge it to his card.

“One or seven,” Ten says. “Clara?”

“I’ll probably just order her a bottle of tequila and get it over with.”

Clara tuts under her breath up ahead. “They don’t know we can hear them, do they?” She says to Rose, who smirks.

“No,” she replies. “But I’m now going to order the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu. See if that teaches them.”

“I’ll do wine. John hates wine.”

Rose nods approvingly. “Even better,” she says. “Ten hates it too. We can split a bottle.”

They laugh so loudly that it startles the two into silence behind them, and Clara’s got to admit, the night is already more fun that she thought it’d be.

–

(They order an expensive Merlot and their boyfriends adopt similar expressions of disgust, frowning; Rose snickers and Clara says, Yeah, we could hear you.

John has the decency to look abashed; Ten just stares at the ceiling guiltily for five minutes and doesn’t answer. Clara and Rose resume conversation.

Eventually the boys start discussing atoms or something; Clara tunes in for a moment and hears _sonic waves_ and _sub-atomic level_ and zones back out. She jerks her head at them, signaling Rose, who pauses to listen and then gives her a deadpan expression that Clara understands entirely too well.

They’re idiots, she says lowly. Idiots who give themselves way too much credit for being clever.

Clara laughs; Let’s not do this too often, she responds, John’s ego is already big enough.

Rose nods enthusiastically. You don’t need to convince me, she says. I’m pretty sure Ten thinks he’ll be inventing time-travel one of these days.

Clara grins. We better not leave them alone, she replies, or they actually _might._ )

–

Valentine’s Day is exactly a week later, on a Friday; John picks Clara up from her afternoon lecture. She drops her bag into his outstretched hand almost automatically, mouth in a pout.

“I’ve decided what I want to do,” she grumbles, putting her sunglasses over her eyes. “I want to take a hot bath and eat pasta and drink tequila.”

“At the same time?” John asks, mentally sorting out the logistics of their bathroom space.

“At the same time,” Clara confirms.

“Class that bad?”

“Appalling.”

He slings her bag over his shoulder, linking their fingers together and tucking their hands in his coat pocket. “Well, I think we can manage that. I’ve already secured the last two of the three.”

She crinkles her nose, thinking. Her smile grows sly. “Chicken tequila fettuccine?”

He has a bounce in his step. She almost trips. “Yes! I thought it’d be nice. I didn’t think you’d feel like going out.”

She stops walking, forcing him to a halt. He turns, looking at her in bemusement; she’s staring at him with an odd expression on her face. He pokes her nose.

She says, “God, you are the best fucking thing that has _ever_ happened to me.”

He replies, smiling in confusion, “It’s just pasta.”

She thinks he misses the point entirely, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

–

(No, really, she insists. I’m not – this isn’t about the pasta. It’s about you. _You._

He seems unable to comprehend what she’s telling him. What have I done? He asks, fingers tight around her hand.

She huddles close to him, her head below his chin, his other arm automatically wrapping across her back. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing. He doesn’t push her for an answer. Her lips find his temple; her free hand tangles in his hair. The ice crunches underneath her boots.

Everything, she says. You’ve done everything for me.

She doesn’t know how to explain it; she used to be alone and now she’s not. These facts have _got_ to mean something: her fingerprints are on his pillowcases, she smells like his soap, and she remembers the path Venus takes through the solar system. It’s been a bad day and he’s here with a quirk in his mouth and a pocket watch hanging out of his overcoat and he’s made her dinner, and tonight she’ll fall asleep with his lips pressed against her shoulder blade and his fingers dancing across the curve of her spine. What else is there, then, she wants to tell him; What else _matters._

He’s still unsure of what’s caused this onslaught of emotion, but he doesn’t ask. He lifts his head. He says, You’re perfect. Perfect in every way for me.

Somehow, he gets there in the end.)

–

They catch Amy and Rory on their way out, looking glamourous; Amy’s wearing a dress and Rory’s hair is wilder than usual, styled. It’s an extreme contrast to Clara and John: Clara’s ready to pass out for a few hours and John’s – well – John.

“Wow, big night?” Clara asks, admiring Amy’s outfit. “Where are you both off to?”

“It’s a surprise,” Rory says before Amy can open her mouth. “She doesn’t know where we’re going.”

Amy harrumphs under her breath and Clara giggles. “She’s cheery already.”

Amy rolls her eyes, and glances at the two of them in an accusatory manner. “How about the two of you?” She shoots. “I know John’s been slaving away in the kitchen all afternoon, but I said, 'What if she wants to hit the town? Have some fun?’ And _he_ said—”

“I said you’d probably want to stay in,” he finishes, grinning.

“I do want to stay in,” Clara agrees, corroborative.

Amy exhales loudly. “Sometimes I wish he’d get it _wrong_ for a change. He makes the rest of us look bad.”

John smiles, amused, but says nothing. Clara drops her gaze to the floor.

“Yeah,” she replies, oddly abashed. “Sometimes I wish he’d get it wrong, too.”

John recognizes it for the compliment it really is: that so far, he hasn’t. Rory takes it as their cue to leave. It’s a moment he’s conscious of. He’s always been attuned to the two of them, more so than anybody else; he thinks it has something to do with that first night in the club, and things he shouldn’t have been allowed to see.

“We’ll be late,” is all he says, his hand at the small of Amy’s back.

John gestures for them to head off, waving with his hands. “Yes, yes,” he says. “Move along, Pond, off you trot.”

“Have fun,” she replies drolly, and walks away with Rory.

Clara turns to John. “ _I_ don’t ever get it wrong, either,” she tells him confidently.

He inclines an eyebrow. “No, you don’t,” he answers slowly, almost curiously. “How is that?”

There aren’t people who know him; there are people with ideas and notions, guesses, hypotheses, theories. His body is dying cells and organs and matter and mass. When he thinks about himself he has equations; math, science, the rotation of the Earth, the gravitational pull, how to fall at twice the speed every twenty feet. It’s unknowable. The darkest day of his life was in July.

She presses a hand against his cheek, lips parting over her teeth in a genuine smile. She strokes his skin with her thumb. He watches the way her eyelashes brush when she blinks.

“I always know,” she says, and he believes her.

–

(She runs a bath. He lets the sauce simmer. When he returns to his room, she’s half-undressed asleep on his bed; he touches her ribcage gently. The water is still hot. The bathroom mirror steams over.

Clara, he murmurs, Clara.

She hums and opens her eyes, stretching after a minute. She rests her head against his knee. She asks tiredly, Bath ready?

Yes, he says, and grins. You can sleep on me. I’ll wash your hair for you.

She cracks a smile and raises herself up slowly. Well, with an offer like _that,_ she replies cheekily.

He says, Go on. I’ll be right there. What do you want to drink?

Champagne, she answers decisively.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, watching her walk away. He asks, Really?

She shrugs, slipping her tank top off. I’m feeling classy all of a sudden, she calls from the bathroom.

He stands, peering around the door frame. She sinks into the tub, looking over at him and smirking. He can’t argue with her. There’s a reason she’s the boss.)

–

Near the end of February, Clara comes home from her lecture, expression oddly disturbed.

“What’s the matter?” Amy asks, taking notice immediately. John’s making daiquiris, but whips his head around instantly, like he’s expecting her to be openly sobbing. He calms when he realizes she isn’t – her mouth is twisted into a frown, eyebrows furrowed.

She says, “I think my professor was flirting with me.”

John nearly breaks the blender. River perks up, noticeably interested. “Is he hot?”

Clara rolls her eyes. “Not my type. Also not the point.”

River raises her glass to her lips suggestively. “Well, no, but if he’s at least _hot,_ I’d be happy to…take care of him for you.”

Amy snorts. “I thought you wanted to _be_ a professor, not _do_ one.”

“Can’t a girl have both?”

Clara laughs – she and River may have had their differences, but they’ve long since moved on; she appreciates River’s personality, blunt and unapologetic. She says, “His surname is Latimer, if you know him. Teaches revolution in literature.”

River thinks for a moment and shakes her head. “I’ll get acquainted.”

John leans against the cutting board. His voice is awkwardly controlled; it makes Amy snigger. “What did he say, exactly?”

Clara scrunches her nose. “Something about how I…was remarkably wise for someone so pretty. And then corrected it to 'young.’ It’s not the first time he’s said something along those lines, to be honest.”

River tuts under her breath. “Amateur,” she says in response. John grimaces.

“I’ll pick you up next week,” he decides, grabbing a knife and beginning to slice strawberries. He adds hastily, “Not because I think you can’t take care of yourself, but because – you know – because.”

She holds back a giggle. He has his moments of jealousy, of childish possessiveness; he’s lucky she finds it somewhat endearing and not irritating. Juice stains the tips of his fingers.

“Yes, dear,” she replies, sharing a look with Amy. She idly notices an absence around the table. “Where’s Rory?”

“Studying,” Amy says. “He’s got coursework due Tuesday.”

“It’s Friday.”

“You know how he is.”

Clara gives her that one. “And Jack?”

“He’s with 309 tonight,” River chimes in, scrolling through her phone. “They’re on their way to _Glow,_ that club across town.”

John glances up, appearing weirdly offended. He dumps the strawberries in the blender. “Why didn’t we go?” He asks. “I liked hanging out with them—”

Clara holds up a hand. “Absolutely _not,_ ” she says firmly. “The two of you were _unbearable._ ”

“We weren’t _that_ bad,” he protests mildly, measuring rum. “It was mostly quantum mechanics—”

“You were ready to build a time machine _._ ”

He hums nonchalantly. “I still maintain that we could do it, given enough space and access to the right materials.”

Even River sighs exasperatedly.

“Couldn’t you just _slap_ him sometimes?” She asks conversationally, and Clara winks in reply.

**March**

Rose is the first to spot him on her way out of the lecture hall; she does a double-take and smiles brightly.

“John!” She greets, kissing him on the cheek. “This is unusual – you’re not normally on campus at this hour, are you?”

“I’m not,” he confirms, smiling back at her. “But it was brought to my attention that the professor is a tad…keen.”

Rose understands immediately, pulling a face. “Yeah, he’s a bit eager,” she says. “Fancies Clara, that’s for sure. He always keeps her behind.”

John grimaces, but saves it. “Not that I can blame him.”

Rose laughs at that. “Oh, he’s rubbish, anyway. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

As if on cue, Clara’s voice echoes out behind them, followed by the distinct voice of a man. John shifts his gaze over Rose’s shoulder and she turns around, catching sight of Clara and the professor in the doorway. She rolls her eyes. He makes an entrance.

He approaches carefully, resting a palm against Clara’s lower back. She glances over, surprised. Professor Latimer halts in the middle of a sentence, staring.

“Sorry to interrupt, dear,” John says, tone low and cool, “but we’ll be late to dinner.”

Clara follows the act he’s putting on; it’s terribly appealing, jawline hard and stare forceful, challenging. Professor Latimer recovers and says, “Who are you?”

She decides to do the introductions. “Professor, this is my boyfriend, John.”

John extends a hand. “How do you do?” He asks civilly.

It throws the man off. He glances between them, carefully grasping John’s fingers. He opens his mouth, and after a brief pause, looks at Clara and says, “You have a boyfriend?”

She can’t even fake politeness at that point. She forces a smile and replies, “Really, we’ll be late.”

John says with a smirk, “Nice to meet you.”

Rose trails behind them as they leave, not even bothering to muffle her laughter.

–

(Brilliant, John, brilliant, Rose praises, patting his arm. You should think about a second degree in theatre. You’re rather impressive when you want to be.

Clara raises an eyebrow to the suggestion, taking it in. I have to admit, she says, you pull off the whole _dark and dangerous_ thing well.

He grins. That’s because I am, he replies, poking her in the side. Just wait until I get you alone.

Rose snorts – he’s more transparent than he thinks he is, and Clara’s got a smile on that doesn’t lie.

 _Right._ )

–

Jack bursts into their room on the thirteenth, laptop balanced on one arm and mug of tea in the other hand. Clara looks up from her book, pausing in the middle of reading aloud, John’s head in her lap. They’re lying on his bed contentedly. Jack doesn’t blink twice.

“Okay,” he says authoritatively, clearly about to get into something. He sets his cup on John’s desk. “I’m thinking group vacation; we’ve got most of April off until exams in May. Where’s nice this time of year?”

Clara closes her book. “Like all of us? Going on holiday?”

He nods, clicking a link on his computer. “Everyone’s for it.”

“Define _everyone,_ ” John says.

“Us and 309.”

Clara raises her eyebrows, attempting to sort out the logistics. John’s fingers tap against her knee unconsciously. “Ten of us,” she says. “That’ll be a fair amount of work.”

“Right, which is why I’d like to book it now,” Jack agrees. He squints at his screen. “Rose suggested Split. Said it’s supposed to be great. And _warm._ ”

John looks at her. “What d'you think?” He asks. “Do you want to go?”

She hums. “Will there be cocktails?” She directs at Jack, and grins when he gives her a stare like she’s just insulted him. She glances back to John. “Could be fun.”

Jack leans over and ruffles her hair. “That’s my little alcoholic,” he coos, and she laughs. “I’ll buy you your first margarita, and you can drink it on the beach.”

John sighs. “I guess that settles it.”

Clara smirks at him. “Chin up – oh, pun intended,” she says coyly, patting his cheek. “I’ll be wearing a bikini the entire trip. Something to look forward to.”

“You’re so indecent,” he replies, faking exasperation, but the expression on his face doesn’t protest.

–

(Jack books the tickets and hostel ten minutes later, waving them off. I’ve got connections, he says almost ominously; You can pay me back. It’s easier to do it at once.

Clara secretly thinks he’s part of an American mafia, or some international drug cartel, until John points out that _Harkness_ is a large corporate business overseas and the money he just spent is probably like pocket change to him.

She bites the inside of her cheek. So, who’s richer, between the two of you? She asks, distantly listening to Jack and River argue the merits of vacationing in Croatia.

John hides a grin. Why? He responds. Are you going to leave me if it’s him?

She nods. Oh, definitely, she answers seriously. Let’s compare bank balances.

John snorts. Pick your battles, dear, he says airily, mouth in a lazy smirk.

She laughs and kisses him; _never, never._ )

–

On St. Patrick’s Day, Amy takes initiative and plans a pub crawl across town, ending at _Chapel._ Jack and River, who have been drunk since eleven in the morning, buy them all four rounds of shots each at The Rose & Crown – their starting location – and laugh uproariously when John downs them all in quick succession, nearly falling over from the head rush. Clara gets him a glass of water. He leans heavily on her shoulder.

“Steady now,” she says, gritting her teeth. “It’s the beginning of the night. You’re nearly a foot taller than I am. Come on, take it like a woman.”

He chuckles breathlessly into her neck. “Woman up,” he says, raising his head. “I need to woman up.”

“You do,” Clara agrees, nudging him in the ribs. “Amy’s on her sixth shot of whiskey. River’s been smashed all day. And I—”

“You weight approximately a hundred pounds and still manage to handle your liquor better than me,” he finishes, wincing. “I know. I know. Be gentle with me. I haven’t had as much practice as you lot.”

She rolls her eyes. “What _did_ you used to do before you met us, I wonder.”

“Science-y stuff. You know.” He answers, slipping his coat back on. “Read about physics and quantum theory. Timey-wimey business.”

Clara tugs on his hand, giggling. Rory holds the door open for them; John grimaces when the cool evening air hits him. Amy and Jack are loudly singing up ahead, arms thrown over each others’ shoulders.

“As nice as that sounds,” Clara replies without sarcasm, smiling, “I hope you prefer us.”

John closes his eyes and grins at the sky. “I do.”

–

They’re a pub away from the club and everyone’s off their faces; Jack’s begun teaching the entire bar how to swing dance and River’s collecting phone numbers, texting _Red Cross_ to donate money from every person she’s not attracted to and actually giving her information to the ones she is. She and Clara are rating them on a numbered scale; there’s been a few sevens, mostly eights; Clara gives a brunette woman by the door a nine and River looks approvingly at her.

“You’re more dedicated to this than I thought you’d be,” she says, not bothering to hide her interest.

Clara shrugs. “I had a thing with a girl once; her name was Nina.”

River’s eyebrows raise impressively. “ _Well,_ ” she begins, lips curling, “if I’d have known that, I might’ve gone for _you_ from the beginning instead.”

John, who’d been passively enjoying their game, sputters and chokes on his cider, ears burning red. Clara winks at her and says, “Oh, this could have ended up much, _much_ differently.”

“Yeah!” Amy yells from behind them, also eavesdropping. “Kiss!”

Clara laughs, leaning into John’s side. John points a finger threateningly at Amy. “Oi! The only – _kissing –_ here will be between significant others,” he scolds sternly. “Or…those who are unattached…with those who are also…unattached.”

“Ruining all the fun,” River sighs, as if he’s severely inconvenienced her, but kisses Clara on the cheek anyway, staring at John the entire time.

His jaw drops, comically offended. Clara shares an amused look with River and places her hands on John’s cheeks, pulling his mouth down to hers in a proper kiss. His right arm curves around her waist automatically, while his other rests on the bar holding a bottle. It’s a more intense kiss than they’re used to sharing in public, but they’re drunk enough that neither of them care; her tongue is hot against his bottom lip.

She breaks away. “Satisfied?” She asks coyly, her fingers under the line of his jaw, one eyebrow raised almost challengingly.

He holds her tighter, mouth against the shell of her ear. “Not quite _yet_ ,” he murmurs dangerously, and his palms press against her hipbones in a way that makes her eyelids flutter shut.

Her lips tilt into a half-smirk. “Oh, well played,” she says quietly. “But we’ve got a few hours to go until we get anywhere _near_ there.”

He leans his head back, exhaling loudly in childish impatience. “I _know._ ”

River’s voice floats over them. “If you’re looking for an extra set of hands, I’d _love_ to join in.”

Clara nearly knocks her head against John’s chin, guffawing; River’s even giggling at herself. Rory says to John, uncharacteristically, “She’ll be fucking with you for _days_.”

John sighs. “Oh, what else is new.”

Amy calls them all a minute later, heading for the door; Clara turns and throws her arms around both Rory and Jack, and the three of them waver unsteadily on their feet. Out on the street, she alternates between taking steps and letting the two of them carry her, swinging between them like a child. She glances over her shoulder at John, lips parted in the middle of a laugh, and everything is right with the world.

–

John’s too drunk to stand an hour into being at the club, and Clara leads him to the couches at the back of the room. She finds the setting familiar, and the look in John’s eyes is knowing; he grins lazily, contentedly. He says, slurring, “You know, I lied.”

She pauses. Their knees touch. “What?” She asks. “About what?”

He tries to point a finger at her and misses by several inches. “You have to promise you won’t be cross with me,” he tells her seriously.

“I promise,” she says. The bass thumps against the soles of her feet.

He rests his jaw on his palm, gazing at her, unfocused. He says, “I remember.”

“What?”

“The first time we came here. I do remember it. Or – some of it.”

She blinks, expecting any other revelation. “You _do?_ ” She replies, shocked. “How? When—”

He’s too smashed to be embarrassed. “After Amy kissed me that one time,” he elaborates. “I had a weird flashback. I remembered kissing you. But I convinced myself it was a dream until – Rory confirmed it to you.”

She smirks. “A _dream_ , huh?” She presses, playfully egging him on.

He shrugs, unashamed and honest. “Well, I thought it was too good to be true.”

Her heart stops and starts. She’s going to _learn,_ one of these days, to quit while she’s ahead.

–

(Clara’s pouting. Was it a _nice_ kiss? She asks. I wish I remembered.

John cups her face in in his hands, leaning close. He smells like cranberries and tequila, and underneath, something heavy and musky and drawing: wood and smoke, dusk. His hair is swept up messily, accidentally styled in a way that makes him look as if he’s done it on purpose. Her fingers wrap around his wrists, nails digging in.

I can show you, he says cheekily; Fancy a reenactment?)

–

“I’ve figured out what Jack’s club is,” John announces upon arriving home from lecture near the end of March. “It’s basically a milder version of an American fraternity.”

Clara blinks, glancing up from her coursework, stretched out on his bed. “What, like – just a bunch of blokes in a house getting drunk and shagging loads of women?”

“And men, in Jack’s case,” John adds, struggling to get his boots off. “But you’ve got the basics down, yeah.”

She laughs, envisioning it. “Pity you didn’t join properly,” she replies, smirking. “Sounds like your thing.”

John turns and pats the crown of her head. “You know me,” he says in fake agreement. “Severe commitment issues.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be expecting a ring any time soon.”

“Probably not. I already gave it to one of my other girlfriends.”

She grabs a pillow from behind her and smacks his back; he falls off the bed, chuckling. She tosses it onto his stomach and goes back to her work, scanning the book in front of her.

He hoists himself up lays on _top_ of her, resting his entire weight over her body; she collapses under him, pushed into the mattress. She’s laughing. His cheek presses against the top of her spine.

She chokes out, “You’re crushing me.”

He hums in response. “It’s my bed.”

“I sleep here, too.”

“Oh, slow down.” His voice vibrates through her, rumbling. “That’s a bit too intimate for me. Sharing a bed? What’s next, a drawer for your clothes? Space in the wardrobe? A toothbrush? Keys to the front door?”

She’s trying hard not to laugh, but it’s a fight she’s losing. She says, “God, wouldn’t _that_ be a nightmare.”

He rolls off of her, grinning. She tilts her head and meets his eyes. His fingers trace the dimples of her lower back automatically.

“Or,” he begins, gaze flickering shyly down and back to her, “crazy idea, I know, but I’ve decided it’s worthwhile anyway – you could stay with me forever.”

It’s a moment that doesn’t strike a chord within her, or form ocean waves against the walls of her heart, but instead sits lightly, like a swing hanging from the bones of her ribcage. It’s a pleasant ache, a warmth, and her smile is genuine and soft. She replies, raising an eyebrow teasingly, “Forever? For a man with commitment issues?”

He raises and drops his shoulders. “I figure it’ll help me get over them. You know, like quitting cold turkey – all or nothing. What d'you think?”

She places a palm against his jaw, running her thumb over his bottom lip affectionately. “And you’re picking me for this experiment?”

He takes her hand and kisses it, lingering. “Clara Oswald,” he replies, smiling. “I can’t think of a better person to spend forever with.”

**April**

He picks her up on an unusually warm afternoon the Friday their classes end. She nearly skips to him, overjoyed; he plucks the beanie off of her head and adjusts it on his own, grinning. She tugs on the strings to pull him down for a kiss. He greets cheerfully, “Hello, gorgeous.”

She laughs. “Hello, Doctor. You look absolutely ridiculous.”

“It’s my new thing,” he says, striking a pose. “Ridiculous hats. Up next: a fez.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not allowing that.”

He ignores her, too lively to bring down. He presses his lips against her cheek loudly, the way he knows she hates. He says, “Courses done? All work submitted? Ready for a holiday?”

She can’t help but smile; his enthusiasm is contagious. “Yes, yes, and yes,” she checks off on her fingers. “And tonight, we are going to celebrate—”

He stills, seemingly holding his breath. She pauses before finishing her sentence; he’s expecting her to say something about getting drunk, and she can tell he’s not in a hard liquor mood. She decides to screw with him.

“—By having _outrageous amounts of sex,_ ” she says deliberately, waiting for him to comprehend it. “ _So much sex._ Hours and hours. I want you to do that _thing_ you do with your—”

He shoves his hand over her mouth, silencing her, face furiously red. She’s snorting into his hand, giggling hysterically. “Shut up!” He exclaims. “There are _people_ around!”

“Yeah, and I’m rubbing it in,” she says, deadpanning. “You get to go home and shag me; they don’t.”

“That’s – that’s not exactly – as true as that may _be,_ there are some things, dear, that we should – _you know—_ ” He sputters all over himself, unable to form a single coherent thought.

She begins to walk ahead, glancing over her shoulder. “That’ll teach you to try and predict what I’m going to say, won’t it?”

He grimaces, trailing behind her. “I thought you wanted to get drunk.”

“I do. I only said that to fuck you.” She pauses and then grins. “Sorry. Fuck _with_ you, I meant. Fuck _with_ you.”

He sighs exasperatedly, face still burning. She knows exactly how to get to him; he’d hate it if he didn’t love it. He says sternly, “Well, the most you’re going to get after that stunt is – nothing. You get _nothing._ ”

She spins and halts, giving him a disbelieving look with an eyebrow raised. “ _Really._ ”

“Really.”

“You’re telling me,” she says lowly, taking a step towards him, “that if I try to seduce you later, you’ll turn me down?”

He almost _gulps,_ it’s that bad; he doesn’t know whether to continue the game and see where it takes him, or if he’ll end up worse for playing. He hasn’t made a decision by the time he’s opened his mouth, and what comes out is, “Erm, yes?”

It’s so hilariously uncertain that her facade breaks and she laughs, shaking her head; “Pathetic. This could’ve been a lot of fun.”

 _Damn._ He gives her a hopeful glance. “It can still be fun, can’t it?”

“No. Stand your ground next time.”

His tongue presses against the roof of his mouth. “What if you try to seduce me, and I pretend I have willpower?”

She laughs again. “And how long will _that_ last?”

“Five minutes?”

She slips her fingers through his, tugging him along. Well. At least he’s honest.

–

(Do you _really_ want to go out and drink? He moans upon arriving home, sitting on his bed with his back against the wall. Can’t we compromise?

She plops onto his lap, winding an arm around his neck. Okay, she allows; Have any ideas?

As a matter of fact, yes, he replies indignantly, resting his chin on her shoulder. That Mexican restaurant in town. You can drink margaritas. But I want _tacos._

She smiles into his hair. All right, she says. That actually sounds good.

See? You want tacos, too.

No, I want a burrito. And nachos.

His expression is wary. If you vomit, he threatens, you’re doing it in your own bathroom.)

–

Their holiday is a week and a half later and they’ve got an early-morning flight; nobody sleeps except for Amy, who passes out on the couch for three hours while Rory packs for her. Clara’s mixing a Bloody Mary for River and Jack each, and John’s taking his clothes out of the dryer, folding them.

He wrinkles his nose at their drinks. “It’s four in the morning. We’re leaving in half an hour.”

River gives him a look, as if he should know better. “Exactly.”

Clara throws a dishrag at him. “Oh, pipe down. We’re all going to be drinking on the beach, anyway.”

“And in the airport,” River says.

“And on the plane,” Jack adds.

“I’m going to organize an intervention,” John informs them all, retreating to his room.

–

They wake up Amy twenty minutes later, Rory holding a mug of tea right next to her face – it’s the surest way to quell her anger. She grimaces in response instead, sitting up and staring tiredly at them like a zombie.

“Is there whiskey in this?” She grumbles before taking a sip, and John makes a noise of outrage.

“What is _wrong_ with you all?” He questions in bewilderment. “ _It’s four in the morning!_ ”

She appears thoughtful for a moment. “And I’ll have a bagel, thanks.”

Clara chokes on a laugh; River’s already handing Amy a bottle. “Up you get, dear,” River says. “We’ve got a flight to catch.”

They’re out the door with their luggage soon after, heaving it down the stairs, not bothering to keep their voices low – their suitcases are making enough of a ruckus for the volume of their conversation to make any difference.

They meet 309 outside, where three private cars are waiting to take them to the airport. Martha glances around, impressed. “Is this your doing too, Jack?” She asks approvingly, but he only shrugs.

“Not me,” he replies. “I thought we’d just hail cabs.”

Clara turns to John, knowing immediately. “You called us _cars_?”

His ears are pink. “I figured it’d be easier this early,” he answers modestly. “And Jack paid for everything else, so—”

Jack winks, overhearing. “Good man, John,” he calls, already beginning to load bags into the trunk.

It’s not a bad ride, and it’s a quiet morning at the actual airport – security isn’t a hassle, and nobody’s forgotten their passports, thankfully. River and Jack make a beeline for the pub near their gate, ordering seabreezes in honour of their vacation. Mickey and Rose join them for a pint each, but Martha and Ten remain at the gate with the rest of them. Martha and Rory are discussing their bioethics lecture as Amy plays Bejeweled Blitz on her phone; John and Ten are sitting opposite, talking about the theory of the multiverse. Martha’s gaze slips over to them.

Rory takes notice; he’s forever the observant one. He begins hesitantly, “So, I know John, but – they’re so similar – did you ever…fancy Ten?”

Martha smiles; it’s not bitter, just accepting. “No,” she replies. “Well – for about a millisecond, but he and Rose have been together since college, so I didn’t bother. But John was sort-of single when I met him.”

She says _sort-of_ because nobody can pinpoint a time when it wasn’t really Clara. “Yeah, I remember,” Rory says, studying the two idly. “And you’re still – into John?”

She’s curling a strand of hair around her fingers, thinking. She doesn’t answer for a moment. Clara comes over, holding a tray of coffee cups; she begins handing them out by order.

“Amy, black, shot of espresso – Rory, yours is in the middle, two sugars, milk – Martha, I asked Rose how you like your coffee so if it’s all wrong, blame her, here—” Clara offers her an apologetic grin and a napkin, which Martha takes gratefully.

“Thank you,” she says, genuine.

Clara turns toward the boys. “Ten, hazelnut, three sugars, Rose did yours as well – and – John.”

He fakes offense. “I don’t get a description?” He prods. “What if you got _my_ order wrong? I need an opportunity to tell you off.”

She takes the seat beside him, unfazed. “I doubt I got _hot chocolate_ wrong, but feel free to complain to Starbucks if I did.”

“Is there whipped cream?”

“There’s whipped cream.”

Amy sniggers; Martha only smiles again, observing.

John’s grinning. “Only joking, dear; and by the way, you look lovely this morning.”

Clara pushes her sunglasses down over her eyes. “I look _tired,_ ” she disagrees, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Be my pillow for the next forty minutes.”

He kisses her hair nicely. “No need to limit it to forty minutes; I’m sure I’ll follow through on the plane as well.”

“Wow, sounds like you have stamina,” she replies, tone vaguely sarcastic.

“Oh, yes, incredible endurance.”

Martha says quietly to Rory, “I don’t think I do, no.”

He glances at her. “You don’t fancy him?”

She shakes her head. “Not anymore,” she answers definitively.

Rose and Mickey make their return, clearly tipsy. Rory takes the distraction to continue the conversation in greater detail. “Can I ask why?”

She nods toward them. “ _Look_ at them _,_ ” she says, gesturing. “Honestly, Rory – do you think they’ll _ever_ break up?”

It’s one of the strangest ideas he’s ever considered; not because he can’t recognize them as two separate people, but because something about them together is so comforting, so _right,_ that he thinks the tilt of the earth’s rotation relies on them loving each other. “No,” he responds slowly. “It’s a bit weird, actually. Sort of like – they were meant for each other, or something.”

“Yeah.” She exhales. “It’s – untouchable. It’s nice to witness. I have too much self-respect to get involved.”

“It’s not a competition,” he reminds her.

Martha’s reply isn’t self-deprecating; it’s simply the truth. “Only because there’s not a soul in this universe who can compete.”

Rory doesn’t argue; there’s no point in pretending to see something that isn’t there.

–

(River and Jack wander back right at boarding time, oddly composed for two people who’ve been drunk for three hours – then again, it’s not as if they’re _new_ at this.

River says, sultry, You know, I’ve always wanted to join the mile-high club.

Jack grins with all of his teeth. River, he says, that’s a task I’d be honoured to help you fulfill.)

–

Jack’s outdone himself on the hotel; he’s booked two suites in a five-star in the centre of town, near the dock, each with two private bedrooms leading into a living room and kitchen. Ten, Rose, Clara, and John have one to themselves; Martha and Mickey decide they’ll probably have more fun in a room where everybody isn’t dating each other. They store their bags and don’t waste any time changing into their swimming attire; Clara’s wandering around in a bikini and a towel, which John considers very distracting.

It’s nine in the morning and the strip by the water is nothing but cocktail bars; out of every restaurant, only one serves food. They sit there and watch the boats in the harbor sail lazily by, drinking in the sun and blue sky. They all order omelettes, purely because it’s the only item they’re familiar with on the menu. Clara’s feeling classy and adds tequila pineapple cranberries for her and John; River and Jack are drinking something foreign nobody can pronounce, and Rose and Mickey are back to beer. Martha, Amy, and Rory are staring at the menu, debating between plum brandy and pear brandy. River’s created a rule stating anything they drink while on holiday has to be alcoholic, which a few people roll their eyes at but don’t protest; Clara figures the weather will make them all too lethargic to bother getting into trouble anyway.

They wander toward the beach soon after, where Clara and Amy stop at a stall along the way and buy sunhats; Clara because it’s fashionable, and Amy because she’ll burn otherwise. The actual beach is crowded, but Ten rents them chairs on the sand and they stretch out on their towels, lounging. River, Jack, Rose, and John make the short trek to the bar sitting uphill of the beach and order drinks, delivering them down to the rest of the group.

Clara’s got a pair of aviators covering her eyes, and she rolls onto her back when John approaches.

“Do my back,” she says, referencing the suntan lotion. “The blue bottle. I still want a tan.”

He stares at her, picturing it. “You’re way too hot for me,” he says stupidly, speaking without thinking.

She laughs into her elbows. “Oh, shut up,” she replies. “Come on. Get to work.”

He rubs sunscreen into her shoulders and lower back obediently – like he’d complain in the first place – and she giggles every time his fingers press against her sides, ticklish. He flops next to her. The sun sinks into her skin. Her bones feel heavy.

She falls asleep for an hour and a half until the pressure of John’s hands nudge her awake; he’s rubbing lotion into the indent on the backside of her knee.

“Sorry,” he says, grinning bashfully, noticing her movement. “I didn’t want you to burn.”

She stretches, feeling relaxed and refreshed. “You’re too nice to me.”

“Probably, yes.”

She smiles; her toes curl. She loves the smell of seasalt. There are no ocean waves. The water is calm and shallow and clear. “Take a swim with me,” she implores. She glances to her left. Martha and Ten are asleep, too; she sits up and scans the area.

Jack and River are chatting up a group of gorgeous foreigners by the bar; Rose, Mickey, Amy, and Rory are out in the water playing a game with a small ball. She stands, tying up her hair. John follows behind her.

Clara’s tiny enough that she can submerge herself completely, even while the rest of them comfortably stand. Rose tosses her the ball. “We’ve got a plan for tonight,” she informs her.

“Oh?” She says, mildly interested. “What is it?”

“Gonna hit the clubs on the cliff,” Mickey answers. “There’s a whole line of 'em, connected. We can just hop from one to the other.”

“Sounds good.” Clara’s too relaxed to disagree with anything. “Considering we’re not allowed to be sober, anyway.”

Rose grins. “That’s the spirit,” she says.

John sinks into the water and exhales, bubbling in almost-silent protest. Clara laughs and tosses the ball back to Rory, watching their game continue.

“We can dance,” she murmurs into John’s ear, winding her arms around his neck, floating. “I’ll take the lead.”

He’s not the greatest when it comes to rhythm and beat; it’s why the two of them usually end up in a corner somewhere at a club instead of on the dance floor. He makes a face, but ultimately acquiesces.

“Drunk in a foreign country,” he says. “I suppose the risk of us embarrassing ourselves is already high.”

“Exactly,” Clara says, grinning. “What’s a little more?”

–

(What happens is this:

Nobody remembers _anything._

Mickey wakes up on the floor of the kitchen, having dragged his mattress there from the bedroom for some unknowable reason; Amy discovers Rory passed out with his arms over the toilet bowl at five a.m.; John falls out of bed and doesn’t even flinch, sleeping straight through it; Martha spends an hour the next morning hunting for her wallet and her phone, which she’d hidden from herself while intoxicated; Clara inexplicably opens her eyes to find three cartons of orange juice resting on her nightstand, even though she hates citrus; and Ten actually has to give Rose a piggyback ride to breakfast. Jack and River don’t even come home.

It’s only the first night. Clara doesn’t think they’re going to survive the rest.)

–

Miraculously, they do; though they skip clubbing the second night because everyone in the other suite comes home and falls asleep after drinking on the beach, leading Clara, John, Rose, and Ten on an adventure to find a restaurant that isn’t purely seafood – Ten isn’t the biggest fan of it. The third night is another blur, but less so; they end up swimming in the ocean at midnight after four shots of some blue liquid the bartenders were passing out for cheap, and then stumbling home.

(There are only a few odd mishaps: Martha climbs into the wrong bed with Mickey and falls asleep on him; John flings his clothes – including his shoes – into the bathtub and turns the water on, complaining about sand; Rose wanders into the other suite and leaves with three of their pillows, which Jack comes looking for in the middle of the night.)

On the last day, they wander around the city together, stopping in boutiques and hole-in-the-wall shops and even the fish market, to the displeasure of everyone except Amy and John. Clara catches the tail end of a conversation between Jack and River—

“You know,” Jack’s saying, “I don’t really understand it. I’ve never found it to taste like fish. At _all._ ”

River nods, inspecting a carp.“Yes, I’ve always thought it to be _sweeter_ than that—”

Clara doesn’t think she wants to know.

–

(Their flight is a few hours later, and they spend the duration of the ride playing group games of poker on the screens; Clara sweeps them all four out of six rounds. Amy accuses her of cheating, _somehow,_ and winds up challenging her to a real game the minute they get home.

Clara wins twenty-five quid from Amy, who vows never to bet against her again. Clara doesn’t give her the money back. She’s not a pushover. River’s smile is secretly approving.)

–

The next week, Clara and John are packing. She’s beginning to feel like they never stop.

John’s already in the kitchen by the time she wakes up, brewing tea; he and Amy are talking about childhood memories, and it’s such a sweet, undisturbed conversation that Clara waits to interrupt. She lays in bed, listening, smiling at the stories John tells – most of them she’s heard before, but there’s one or two she hasn’t – and finally, when her stomach rumbles loudly, she pads into the kitchen.

Amy’s back is turned; John greets her nicely. “Good morning,” he says, giving her a light kiss. Amy spins and echoes him. John continues, “I’ve made you tea,” and hands her a steaming mug.

She takes it appreciatively. “Thanks. Morning, Amy.”

Amy pushes a plate toward her with a croissant on it, buttered. “He made you this, too, but apparently forgot in his rush to impress you.”

Clara grins. John blushes. “I don’t have to _try_ to impress her,” he shoots back hotly. “We’ve been together long enough, I think.”

Amy rolls her eyes. “Nice try,” she replies. “I don’t think you know how to _stop_ impressing her.”

Clara watches the back and forth with amusement, holding her cup to her mouth. John huffs and doesn’t answer. Clara’s grin widens. She touches John’s arm.

“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s endearing. It’s good. I love you for it.”

The use of the word _love_ calms his embarrassment; he relaxes slightly. Amy stares between them contemplatively. “Hey,” she says, “when’s your anniversary?”

He and Clara look at each other, equally baffled. “Erm,” she says.

John puts his finger underneath his chin, thinking. “I think – it was definitely November, right?”

“I thought it was October.”

“Seems like it, but it was – the last week of November.”

Amy’s arm flops against the table in disbelief. “You don’t even _know?_ Don’t you celebrate it?”

“No,” they answer simultaneously, wearing similar blank expressions.

“Hang on,” Clara says, recognition flickering across her face. “You’re right. It was like, the 25th or something.”

He cocks his head. “I thought it was later than that.”

“Should we just pick a day, or—?”

“Go on.”

“28th work for you?” Clara asks, scrolling through the calendar on her phone. “It was a Wednesday.”

“Any day works for me.”

“Perfect.”

Amy’s jaw hangs open. She recovers just enough to say, “You two are _unbelievable._ ”

“Hey, five months tomorrow,” John says, clapping his hands together. “Good on us, ay?”

Clara giggles, mouth against the rim of her mug; Amy’s given up on reactions when neither of them are paying attention. She observes casually for a moment. John kisses Clara’s forehead.

It’s not that anything they’re doing is particularly intimate, but it _feels_ so; it’s the space between them, everything they don’t say and everything they do, the way Clara’s lips tilt and her gaze drops the second John turns his back. Clara’s phone lights up with a text message; her lock screen is a picture of the two of them, clearly candid, asleep together on what looks like Clara’s living room couch; John’s stretched out and Clara’s curled on top of him, head tucked below his chin, underneath a blanket. One of John’s hands rests in her hair; the other is on her waist. Amy can’t stop herself from smiling.

Clara catches her peeking and actually _blushes_ ; not because she’s embarrassed, but because it’s not something the rest of them usually get to see – they’re allowed the smaller moments, the jokes and fake insults and flustered compliments. They’ve never been granted vulnerability.

John’s washing dishes; Amy takes the distraction to lean over. “It’s okay,” she says genuinely, quietly. “It’s cute. It really is.”

Clara’s lips curl in slight appreciation. “It’s nauseating,” she corrects, but her voice falls flat. Amy laughs to make her feel better.

Clara changes the subject abruptly. “John, what time’s our train?”

“Eleven.”

She grimaces. “Hour and a half,” she says, checking the clock. “I’ve got to get dressed.”

“Brilliant plan,” he agrees, wiping down a plate. “We would like to get there _on time._ ”

She raises her eyebrows. “I’ll be going alone if you keep up with that attitude.”

He sticks his tongue out at her.

–

(How long are you gone for? Amy asks, chin in her palm.

John thinks for a minute. Until the 10th, he answers; we’re seeing Clara’s family. My exams are the next week, and I think Clara’s are then, too. She’s only got two, though.

Amy frowns. Lucky, she says jealously. I have four.

So do I, John says, but I’m quite looking forward to them.

She rolls her eyes. Of _course_ you are.)

**May**

The spend the first few days with Clara’s grandmother and aunt, who’ve been waiting to meet John for months; he makes quite an impression when Clara’s gran walks in on him in the bathroom, getting dressed after a shower. She laughs and takes entirely too long leaving, citing old age and rusty joints; he rushes into the kitchen, hiding behind Clara, who’s chopping potatoes.

“What is it?” She asks, catching sight of his red face. “Did gran try to snog you again?”

“She saw me _naked!_ ” He exclaims, flapping his arms about wildly.

She chokes on a laugh. “Bet she loved that.”

John fumes. “I’m starting to think she’s doing it on purpose.”

“Probably.” She glances over at him; he’s still somewhat mortified. She nudges his elbow and passes him a knife. “Here,” she says, handing him an onion. “Chop this.”

He starts slicing slowly, methodically; she thinks it’s helping until she sees the tears in his eyes. There’s something so _sad_ about him crying that it doesn’t even matter what induces it. She stands there, biting her lip, her expression tragic; he gives her a watery smile and rushes to apologize.

“Sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry. I’m usually better with onions; this one’s strong. Ripe.”

He’s afraid she might cry, too. She places her hands against his cheeks. “Look at you,” she whispers, like he’s some injured stray puppy she decided to take home. “Those big, sad eyes.”

Gran walks in at exactly the wrong moment; Clara’s back is to her, and the only face she sees is John’s. “Oh, dear,” she coos, and Clara jumps. “What’s the matter? Sweet John. You know I’m only teasing.”

He rubs at his eyes furiously. “No, no, no,” he replies, gesturing at the onions without being able to see. “I’m – cooking—”

She obviously doesn’t buy it, giving Clara a knowing stare. She says, “Well, we’re due for a nice board game in a tick. Clean yourself up and meet us in the living room,” and hobbles off.

Clara’s expression is more pitying now than anything else. She wipes her thumb below his eye. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeats, trying to comfort him. “I know she can be a bit much—”

He shakes his head, silencing her. “It’s all right,” he replies, and there’s a look on his face weirdly akin to fierce determination; it’s one she’s seen only in dire situations, like when he forced her through her physics final last term. He meets her eyes. “I think I’m going to have to do things your way.”

She has no idea where _that_ door leads until he reaches for a bottle of tequila, and takes a swig straight from the bottle. She’s torn between shock and hilarity, her eyes wide, hand covering her mouth.

“Life and soul you’re about to be,” is all she manages to say, following him as he marches to meet his doom.

–

(They’re all seated around the telly, and John comes in, clapping his hands. Board games? I love a good board game, what are the options, anyone for a battle of _Twister_?

Clara mouths ’ _sorry_ ’ to Dave, and her aunt doesn’t even know how to react; but her gran chortles and replies, Dear, I’m not as flexible as I used to be, but I wouldn’t mind practicing with you.

They wind up playing some random game of cards instead, and Dave leans over and whispers, You know, I’m sort of disturbed that my _mother_ won’t stop flirting with your _boyfriend_.

Clara winces.

When you put it like _that,_ she says, trailing off.

She winds her fingers through John’s for the rest of the afternoon and tries not to let him go.)

–

The rest of their days home they have to themselves; it’s strolling through parks and drinks at pubs and deep conversations at three in the morning, or frantic kisses, mouths meeting, hands pressing against skin. Clara wants a collage of the way John curls around her while he sleeps; his head underneath her chin, his body resting atop hers, sprawled out; or it’s his cheek on her shoulder, leg across her thighs, arm thrown over her stomach; it’s like his bones were carved with hers in mind.

He’s running his fingers through her hair and she’s lying on his chest; she stretches sleepily and exhales. He asks, “Do you like being home?”

She pauses, frowning at the ceiling in thought. “I do when you’re with me,” she answers finally. “The family – sometimes they’re too much. It’s fine when it’s just dad and I, but my aunt’s a bit overbearing.”

He hums, nails running down her back. “But your gran’s nice.”

Clara breathes out in a laugh, low in her chest. “Real keen on you, that’s for sure.”

“Real keen on playing _Twister_ with me _,_ more like.”

She grins into his collarbone. “It’s nice to see her so lively.”

He hesitates. “When did your grandfather pass?”

“When I was a child,” she says. “I think about eight. It hit her hard.”

John doesn’t speak, still rubbing the contours of her spine. She shifts, resting her chin on her hands, flat on his sternum. She grins distantly, pulling up a memory; she’s not sure why the particular one comes to her or what it means, but she tells him anyway. “She has this story,” Clara begins, “from before they were together. She’d see him across the street all the time. But there was a day in particular – a moment – where she said she looked at him and wanted everything to stop. Like he was so beautiful, standing there, that she wished nothing would change ever again.”

John remains oddly silent. He meets her gaze, and the look on his face is delicate, gentle, fleeting; like if she blinks, she’ll miss him. She feels his lungs expand and his breath catches. He says, after a brief struggle, “I feel like that a lot.”

Her eyes dart back and forth between his, comprehending. She kisses him once, lingering, and murmurs, “Yeah.” Her lips are in a smile against his. “I feel like that a lot, too.”

–

Clara isn’t the constant center of jokes until the next day, as Dave’s been too busy working to stay at home much, and none of them are night owls – but the minute he’s got time off, it’s like he’s reading a list of all the ones he’s stored up.

“Clara, darling, if you don’t mind,” he interrupts, in the middle of her singing an over-dramatized Whitney Houston ballad, “John and I were hoping for a lovely afternoon together, not a preview of a surely-to-be rejected audition for _The X Factor._ ”

John nearly snorts tea up his nose, choking. She looks at him in offense, swatting him on the shoulder. “Don’t _laugh_!” She commands. “Defend my honour!”

He sets his mug down, falling into fake seriousness. “Well, Clara, he’s got a point – you’d definitely be rejected.”

“I want you dead,” she says cheerfully.

“Love you too, dear, thanks.”

Dave grins innocently, as if he isn’t the one who initiated the conflict. Clara throws a sugar cube at his face.

–

(John says later, I’m only joking, dear, you know I think your singing is beautiful.

She rolls her eyes, allowing a small smirk to form across her face. _Really_ , she says flatly.

He kisses her slowly, fingertips tracing the line of her jaw.

Honestly? He starts quietly. If I could have one thing from you – just one – it would be the sound of your voice.)

–

Everyone’s in crunch mode by the time they arrive back at their dorm: Rory’s sitting in the hallway, surrounded by piles of books; River’s highlighting paragraphs of her notes at the kitchen table, sitting next to Jack, who’s typing up definitions on his laptop; and Amy’s making flashcards in the living room, quizzing herself. They all look up when Clara and John return, greeting them happily.

“You’re home!” Amy expresses joyfully. “That’s a good enough excuse to take a break, right?”

“I’ll allow it,” Rory says begrudgingly. Jack tugs his earphones out of his ears.

“Perfect,” he says. “I’m starving. Should we do dinner?”

River swings around on her stool. “Let’s go out somewhere,” she implores. “All of us. It’d be a nice change.”

Clara inclines an eyebrow in confusion. “We always go out together.”

River rephrases. “Let’s go out together _without_ having the intention to get smashed.”

“Oh, right, I see,” Clara says. “Yeah, we should.”

Rory’s grumbling to himself; Amy and River are already slipping on their coats. Jack grins. “That settles it,” he answers. “Anyone in the mood for tapas?”

–

John observes them sitting around the table, passing dishes back and forth, laughing and joking and enjoying each others’ company. It’s not an awkward, forced meal where they’re making polite conversation and side-eying one another, wary and tense, like it might have been in the beginning – he remembers Clara avoiding River, and Amy walking on eggshells around Rory, and him and Jack in the kitchen, talking about mistakes – but this is warmth and genuine affection; it’s River and Rory hugging, it’s Clara and Amy debating over appetizers, it’s Jack saying earnestly he loves each of them in turn. It’s family.

Clara notices the subtle change in John’s demeanor. “John?” She asks. “Something wrong?”

The rest of them overhear and stop to listen, worried. He smiles softly, gazing at them all. He says, “A lot’s changed, hasn’t it.”

The silence that settles is reflective; they weren’t expecting a streak of sentimentality. They grow almost shy of each other after realizing the truth of John’s words. Clara taps John’s knee.

Amy stretches a hand across the table and wraps her fingers around his; she’s beaming. “Yeah,” she agrees gently. “It has.”

–

He sort-of studies for his exams, mostly for the sake of appearance; he’s confident enough in his own knowledge and ability to pass without needing to go over the material again. He sits next to Clara on the couch instead, wearing his reading glasses, reading short essays and texts in order to validate her interpretations of them. Sometimes he pretends to disagree with her, just to make her explain it thoroughly; she gets heated, pointing out subtext and literary devices until he understands. She realizes what he’s doing the third time around, and pauses in the middle of a sentence, grinning at him.

“ _Oh,_ ” she says. “I see.”

He smiles, waving his hand. “Go on.”

“In a moment.” She leans on one elbow. “Do you still love me, even though I sound like a raving obsessive lunatic?”

He sighs, almost like he can’t believe she’s even asking him such a question. “Clara Oswald,” he responds, “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

–

(Clara, Amy, and Jack are all up late that evening, as they’re the three with exams the following afternoon. John stays awake and brews them coffee – his first test isn’t until a day later – and even gives Amy a shoulder rub, working out the kinks in her muscles.

You’re the best, John, she almost moans, her head flat against the table. My back is _killing_ me.

Just call me the Doctor, he replies zealously, and he can feel Clara’s grin from across the room.)

–

Clara’s the first to finish her exams, as she’s only got two, and her second is the day of John’s third. She waits outside the hall with Rose, who’s waiting for Ten; it’s the exam for the module the two share. They’re discussing summer plans, and activities they want to do once the term officially ends.

“Ten wants a holiday in New York,” Rose says, inspecting her nails. “He loves it there, and I’ve never been.”

Clara whistles. “Lavish trip. And here I’ve got John wanting to take me to the Caribbean.”

Rose almost laughs, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “The boys and their money.”

“At least they’re modest.”

“True,” Rose allows. “Anyway, nothing’s set in stone, yet. You?”

Clara shrugs, resting against the wall. “John’s parents had a lakehouse, about two hours south. I think we’re going for a week or two in July.”

Rose smiles. “That’ll be nice. Bit of an honour, don’t you think?”

She knows instantly what Rose is referring to. “Yeah,” she replies, humble, “because I don’t think he’s been there since. He said he’d love for me to see it, though.”

Rose gives her a nod in understanding, still smiling.

“It’s a step,” is all she says, just as Ten and John come piling out of the exam hall.

–

(How’d you do, boys? Rose asks, and in lieu of a response, Ten grabs her face between both of his hands and kisses her.

Brilliantly, he announces enthusiastically, swinging an arm around her shoulders. What a breeze, eh, John? Finished at the same time.

John points at him. Great minds, he says, clapping. We are _incredibly_ clever.

Now, Ten continues excitedly, weren’t we discussing that quadracycle?

Rose and Clara exchange looks while their boyfriends’ backs are turned.

 _Don’t even ask,_ Rose mouths.)

–

River’s the last to end her exams, and they’ve all agreed to stay until then; it’s only an extra few days, so nobody minds much. They’re packing up their stuff, anyway, leaving their flat a mess of suitcases and half-filled boxes and heaps of clothing scattered about – Clara finds three of John’s shirts on the kitchen counter, and Jack realizes he’s packed half of Rory’s pants by mistake – and John’s left wondering how they wound up with exponentially more belongings than they started with.

“I swear,” he says, folding Clara’s jumpers, “it’s like your wardrobe is bigger on the inside. How’d you manage this?”

“I’m excellent with storage,” she replies from the bathroom, scrubbing the sink.

He doesn’t bother asking in the future.

They end up starting a pile in the living room that Amy refers to as “Things I’d Never Fucking Own,” and sorting through it once the rest of their packing is done. It’s small items like hairbrushes and lipstick and the odd pair of socks, but someone throws in a bottle of tequila as a joke, which Clara steals immediately.

“Think of it as a goodbye gift,” Jack calls as she smuggles it into her room, dragging his suitcase to the front. “I’ll see you in September.”

They all trickle out slowly, and it’s hugs and promises to visit over the break; Amy kisses John on the cheek, which River follows by kissing Clara on both, walking out the door like she’s on a runway. Rory’s carrying her bag. She waves over her shoulder with a wink and says ominously, “Until next term.”

–

(It’s difficult for John to take down his stars.

They’ve got the lights off and they’re staring at the ceiling, reveling in the solar system one last time. Clara’s head is pressed against John’s shoulder. His arm curls around her back.

So, he says, trying the lighten the moment; Should I tell you something about space?

She nods into the crook of his neck, breathing. Yeah, she murmurs, smiling. Tell me something about space.)

–

Clara and John are the last to leave.

He’s holding a book in his hand, flipping aimlessly through the pages, staring at their empty flat. Clara’s hands cover his, reading the title.

“ _The Prophet,_ ” she says quietly. “Trying to find the words to say goodbye?”

He smiles. “It felt nice,” he says, “to have a family again.”

She rubs his arm comfortingly. “We’ll be back. Same group.”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment, lost in thought. She’s learned to wait; he’ll tell her when it comes, when the words are waiting precariously on the tip of his tongue to fall, when he can’t contain them anymore. He laces his fingers through hers.

“I spent a long time running,” he murmurs carefully, “from my own life, and my own pain, and my own suffering. I thought the farther I ran, the less it would hurt. That’s all I wanted. For everything to stop. For time to pass.”

She stays silent, sensing the importance and weight of what he’s trying to express. He glances at her and laughs once, quietly, under his breath.

“You know, I originally applied for a private room, but something went wrong,” he says. “I wanted to stay as far away from other people as possible. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to have nothing more to lose.” There’s a pause, and he tilts his head, staring fully at her. “And then – that first morning – there you were.”

Her lips stretch into a small smile; she’s never heard his perspective like this before. He brushes her hair behind her ear and continues. “You. You were – so _impossible_ ; so small and forceful, and so, so beautiful. I’d spent so long trying to see people as _things_ ; sticks and stones, weapons that could be used against me. But you. You. _You._ ”

She can’t stop herself. “What about me?”

His thumb brushes her cheek. “You were so beautifully _human._ And nothing mattered after that; no ounce of reason, no sliver of logic. I wanted to be with you. I was _happy_ being with you. Whatever came next – the months I didn’t step forward, the days I gave to River, all of it – was because I knew it had to be you, and I tried running from that, as well.”

“Why?”

“Foreknowledge is a dangerous thing,” he answers, grinning almost cheekily; it fades into a sad sort of softness. “You know exactly why, Clara.” There’s a pause. His voice is low. “I still have nightmares about burying you, too.”

Her fingers are tight around his own. “I’m not going anywhere,” she declares, more sure of it than she’s ever been. “Promise me you won’t – send me away, or push me away again. Promise.”

He nearly laughs. “Send you away?” He repeats. “Is there actually a place I could go where you wouldn’t follow me?”

She smiles. Her eyes are wet. “No.”

He lays a palm against her cheek, standing in front of her. Her gaze is anchored to the ground. He says, “Clara.”

He lifts up her chin. “What?” She asks, trying not to cry.

He says, “I love you. And I’m looking forward to tomorrow with you, to every holiday with you, to every anniversary with you.”

It’s so _simple_. Her throat hurts from the effort of holding back; it’s raw and unguarded and vulnerable, his mouth parting against her lips, his heart beating next to hers, the feeling of time and place and person being _right_ , and it’s all that’s worth anything, really: that they’re _alive_ together.

So she says, “I’m looking forward to every Wednesday with you.”

–

(When they leave, they lock the door and don’t look back.

She keeps his spare key.)


End file.
